


The Lion et Le Taureau

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [9]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reincarnation, Threesome - M/M/M, war and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: The saga continues, the future looms, and perhaps... the past is not quite finished either.
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31





	1. Ovid

The two white ships bobbed near each other at the mouth of the strait, bright against the blue of the water and afternoon sky. Achilles approached the dock by the road leading from the compound. Behind him was a sweet and satisfying night spent with Karan, who was more tender and loving than ever, particularly now. Zoe was about to deliver child number two, and as crabby as ever a pregnant woman was. 

Little Leo was walking now. He had his father’s dark eyes and curls, and his mother’s temperament, which meant, essentially, he was a little Xander in the making.

Cole was utterly grateful to Achilles for buying a ship, the _Odysseus,_ for the fisherman Timon, because Timon agreed to take on Dru as his first mate, and the boy was now at that age where irritating others was an art form he seemed to cultivate purely for the beauty of it. Happily, the rough and bearded Timon found him amusing. 

The estate was doing well. The livestock were healthy. The stables were rebuilt better than ever, and even able to house more horses—a few gold pebbles might have found their way into that venture. 

All in all, life was good. Karan was a wealthy man who was about to become a father again, and had the secret pleasure of a lover who came every week for a single night of passion. Achilles was pleased; finally, after several attempts, he had saved his Hector’s world for him, intact, and his Hector was happy.

On Fridays, Achilles belonged to Karan; usually it was just the two of them.

Occasionally, Xander accompanied Achilles to the compound, and when he did, it was understood: they would be three, and Achilles was their slave. Never had a slave been so pleased in his servitude. Just standing between them, on the occasions where they came together, gave him frissons of pleasure that went through him like little lightning bolts. The nights they were three, and he was pressed between them, were an especially piquant spark in a life already pleasant.

Xander particularly liked to hold him in some masterful grip, and Karan sometimes took advantage of his helpless position to lower his mouth onto a swollen cock, and suck it while Xander muttered dark encouragements. What a sight they were in that bare room with the candles around them, Xander grappling their angel's pliant body into submissive display, Karan wrapped around his hips, tormenting him with his tongue, the white sheets twisted and tumbling around them!

Afterward they slept in a tangle… yes, those were the nights Achilles was most transported with joy. The bliss of being held between them made the inside of his brain go blank with peace. 

But the rest of the week, his daily life was on the ship before him. On the ship, he was property of Xander, who was brusque and lusty as ever; his businesslike companion by day, his commanding master by night—Achilles quite enjoyed being the territory instead of the conqueror for a change. But still… when Achilles went to visit Karan, Xander usually let him go alone. Having established that first memorable night that Achilles was joint property, Xander considered himself the major shareholder by a slight margin. 

Here, too, Achilles felt himself to have been triumphant: Xander’s world had been given to him: family, respectability, status, a lifestyle he enjoyed... and Xander appreciated him. But Karan… Karan loved him. 

These were the reflections of Achilles as he stood on the dock, as he did on most Saturday afternoons. Finally, he stepped down off the dock and into his small boat, and rowed out to the _Hector._

“How is she?” Xander asked, as soon as Achilles came aboard. 

“About to burst,” he replied.

Xander nodded. “We’d better not go out till it’s over. They may need you again.”

Achilles merely regarded him with his usual placid stare, the slight habitual curve visible on his full lips. Happiness had made him increasingly mellow… that, and age. His body was still as young and powerful as ever, but his life experience had worn away a great deal of his rough edges. Increasingly, as life in Rhamnus was peaceful and full, so was Achilles. He had less to say all the time; not that he’d ever been particularly chatty, but now… most of what he had to say was to either of his Hectors, and it could usually be conveyed in a loving look. 

“Why don’t you come read to me,” Xander said, and went into the cabin. It was his habit to order his god around, and his god allowed it with that same little smile, the same open gaze of the blue eyes.

They lay in the bed together, and Xander gave him Ovid. It was in Latin, but Achilles could easily translate it to Greek for his beloved.

Achilles opened to the general area where they had last read. “This is where Apollo accidentally kills Hyacinth?” he recalled, and began.

_“Now, the sun was midway between the vanished and the future night, equally far from either extreme: they stripped off their clothes, and gleaming with the rich olive oil, they had rubbed themselves with, they began a contest with the broad discus. Phoebus went first, balancing it, and hurling it high into the air, scattering the clouds with its weight. Its mass took a long time to fall back to the hard ground, showing strength and skill combined. Immediately the Taenarian boy, without thinking, ran forward to pick up the disc, prompted by his eagerness to throw, but the solid earth threw it back, hitting you in the face, with the rebound, Hyacinthus.”_

Xander listened to the rich, quiet voice as Achilles continued.

_“The god is as white as the boy, and cradles the fallen body. Now he tries to revive you, now to staunch your dreadful wound, and now applies herbs to hold back your departing spirit. His arts are useless: the wound is incurable.”_

The warrior stopped reading for a moment, remembering Victor. 

Xander turned his head on the pillow. “Are you alright?”

Achilles inhaled, blinking. Then he nodded, and continued.

_“Just as if, when someone, in a garden, breaks violets, stiff poppies, or the lilies, with their bristling yellow stamens, and, suddenly, they droop, bowing their weakened heads, unable to support themselves, and their tops gaze at the soil: so his dying head drops, and, with failing strength, the neck is overburdened, and sinks onto the shoulder.”_

He stopped again, thinking of the other times his love had slipped away from him just like this. The head drops, the neck sinks onto the shoulder—those eyes grow still and distant, or they close.

Xander moved his arm to touch him, and he began again.

_“You slip away, Spartan, robbed of the flower of youth,” Phoebus sighed, “and I see my guilt, in your wound. You are my grief and my reproach: your death must be ascribed to my hand. I am the agent of your destruction. Yet, how was it my fault…”_

Oh, and this made him think of Patroclus too. Achilles was having a difficult time continuing.  
_  
“…unless it can be called a fault to have loved you? If only I might die with you, and pay with my life! But since the laws of fate bind us, you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips—“_

Achilles broke off, swallowing, and put the book aside. Xander lay looking at him. 

“You look tired,” Xander said. “I wish I could do that trick you do— _sleep!_ And you’d sleep.”

Achilles looked back at him, noting how his eyes were not as tender and soft as Karan’s, but they were direct, and intense, and saw him clearly. 

“I could sleep if you lay on top of me,” Achilles told him quietly. 

Xander got up and closed the cabin door. 

“An afternoon nap might be a good idea,” he said equably, and came back to the bed, lying on his god with his full weight. Xander watched the blue eyes close in bliss, knowing that any handling, no matter how rough, pleased him. He put his face in the warm neck and mouthed the skin for a moment, licking it and biting it. Achilles winced slightly, but endured it willingly, wrapping his arms around his Hector. After a few more bites, they settled in together, letting their breath become synchronized and slow, and eventually they dozed in the warmth of the afternoon.


	2. Xander's Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is the more curious of the two.

In the evening, they settled on fish for dinner, and Xander prepared it briskly, with his years of experience. Achilles went down into the hold for another cask of wine. Their supply was a bit low, he noted. It might be about time to roll another couple gold pebbles in the direction of Uncle Jorge.

When he came back up, the fish was fileted and lying across the grate on the brazier, and Xander was nowhere to be seen. Achilles poured them each some wine and sat down in one of the wooden chairs to enjoy the sunset while the food cooked.

After a moment, Xander emerged from the cabin holding a smooth, opaque, heavy-bottomed bottle in his hands.

“This is your tonic that your mother sends you, isn’t it?” He asked.

Achilles nodded. “It’s empty. I forgot to send it back with Luke.”

Xander turned the bottle in his hands. It looked almost bronze with discoloration, and the surface had tiny scratches on it, as if it had been used many times.

“Why do you have to send it back?”

“It’s the only bottle that can hold the liquid safely, my mother says. She had it made especially.”

Xander pulled the stopper from it and gave it an experimental sniff. “That’s really odd. What’s in it?”

Achilles shook his head lazily. Didn’t know. Didn’t care. It worked. His mother made it. That’s all he knew.

Xander put the bottle to his lips, and Achilles felt a stir of unease. It was empty, but still, there was probably a drop or two at the bottom. His mother had always made it very clear that only he—

With a cry, Xander dropped the bottle and his shoulders rose as if he were about to vomit. The bottle, amazingly, did not break but rolled away. Achilles stood from his chair in alarm as his companion swiped at his burning lips with both hands, frantically, and then ran to the water bucket, plunging both hands into it and bringing water up to splash his face repeatedly.

Concerned, Achilles went to him quickly and pried his hands away. He was appalled to see blisters rising up on his Hector’s lips.

“Hold still, hold still,” he urged, and splashed his own hand in the water, and then touched Xander’s mouth. _Heal…_

In a moment, the blisters receded, and Xander, breathing heavily, backed away from him, staring at him with stricken dark eyes.

“You drink that??” He asked.

Achilles shrugged. “Yes.”

Xander gave him one more accusing look and turned away. Achilles watched as he went swiftly to the cabin and closed the door with a bang. For a moment, the warrior just stood, looking quizzically at the closed door. Then he sighed and went hunting to see where his bottle had rolled to. 

When he found it, and found the stopper, he sealed it up again and hesitated briefly, looking around for a safe place to put it. The safest place, he decided, was the same shelf Xander had taken it from. Presumably he wouldn’t disturb it again after this.

Achilles opened the door quietly and peered in. Xander was sitting at the table rubbing his own arms as if he were cold. The warrior entered and placed the bottle gently back on the shelf before turning to his love.

“Are you chilled?” He came and put his warm hands on Xander’s bare arms. They did feel cool. “You didn’t swallow any, did you?” He added worriedly.

“No. God, no.” Xander breathed.

Achilles caressed his companion’s arms to warm them, saying nothing. He supposed the lesson was learned.

“It’s just… to know you drink that is frightening. What are you made of??”

Achilles smiled. “I don’t know. Come out on deck and have some wine.”

Xander sat shivering at the table for a bit longer, and then submitted to Achilles urging, casting a black look at the bottle on the shelf before exiting the cabin. “We should keep some of that on hand if we ever want to poison anyone.”

“We don’t need to poison anyone. But I have used it to polish silver before.” Achilles admitted.

His Hector gave a huff of shaken laughter and went to sit down with his wine. But as they waited for the fish to fry, he gave his lover the occasional long, searching glance.

“How long have you been drinking that potion?” He finally asked.

“The first time…” Achilles thought back. His mother gave it to him and then sent him in search of his first Hector. “… the emperor of Rome was Caracalla.”

Xander grimaced. That didn’t tell him much. His upbringing hadn’t featured the memorization of the Roman Emperors.

“So, have you ever sat and tried to figure out how old you are?” Xander asked, leaning forward to spear the fish and transfer it to a trencher.

Achilles shrugged. “It’s hard to say. My mother took me to the island a few times when I was a boy, every time she and my father would fight. Then we’d stay there for years. So by the time I was an adult, I’d been alive longer than it seemed.”

“So even before you met Hector, you were already….?” Xander had spent the last year teasing out bits of information. Achilles was no longer eager to share stories of the past, but he wasn’t resistant.

Xander was the only one who ever asked, however. Karan was generally much more concerned with the present, and kissing. Of course, Karan had much less time with him.

“I was already twice as old as I appeared, I think. Nearly. Maybe.” Achilles scowled a bit, trying to remember. But he couldn’t.

“And then you and Hector went to Rome for… how long?” Xander probed.

Achilles shifted in his chair. “Oh years. Many years. He had children and grandchildren.” 

While he didn’t mind telling stories, he was always deliberately vague about this element of his past. He didn’t want to tell Xander, “you have only so many years to live, if history is any indication.”

“And the same with the others?” Xander clarified.

“Is the fish ready?” Achilles gestured, and Xander passed him the trencher.

“But then you miss all the years between.”

“Yes. More wine?”

“What keeps you going?” Xander asked suddenly.

Achilles stared down at his plate and fell into that stillness that both twins had noticed many times. He didn’t know the answer to that question, and sank into silence, waiting for it to come to him. 

Finally, he looked up at his Hector—it was dusk now, and the yellow light from the brazier and a nearby lantern competed with the blue light of early evening. His Hector’s hair was a long braid down his back once again, and his whiskers framed his lips just so. His eyes were just as wide-set and deep as they ever had been. He was still Hector. He just didn’t know he was Hector.

“You do,” Achilles finally answered.

Xander’s lips parted, and his brows crimped up in that worried way that was so Hector. 

“I’m nobody,” he said, as if warning him. He looked around at the ship, at the village, and then back to Achilles. “You have immortality, and you’re spending it with a fisherman and a farmer? You should be… emperor yourself!”

Achilles gave a snort and ate some of his fish. After a moment, he said, “You’re not a nobody.”

Xander gave him a plaintive look. “Even my own mother had no love for me.”

Achilles gazed back at him with soft eyes. “Your mother was a bitch.”

Xander stared at him, affronted, for a beat and then started laughing. Achilles smirked and went back to his fish, pleased. It was hard to get Xander to laugh. 

“Alright,” his beloved finally said, subsiding.

“Eat your fish,” Achilles pointed with his fork.

They ate in companionable silence for a while.

“So do you know the future?” Xander asked. 

“No,” Achilles said, and then hesitated. “I used to know a bit about what to expect, because there were patterns. But when we beat the Saracens… that was new.”

His Hector looked astonished. “Usually, we lose?”

“Every time,” Achilles said flatly, and then put his empty trencher aside and looked at his lover. “I have had to drag you to safety, usually against your will, every time.”

“Why didn’t you this time?” Xander’s brown eyes were very wide.

“Because you had left the compound and I didn’t know whether to stay and drag Karan away, or run to you and save you. I was sure I was going to lose one of you.”

“Why didn’t you just choose Karan? Even I know he’s easier to love than I am.”

Achilles just smiled slightly at him.

Xander picked at his fish and then put it down. “So things have changed this time, and you don’t know what to expect anymore.”

The warrior nodded. “My mother says that the wheel goes around, but the wheel also moves, and that just like a wheel on a chariot, when the same spot comes around, it touches different ground.”

Xander listened thoughtfully. “So… who was Hector before he was Hector?”

Achilles took up his chalice. “I don’t know. It was before we ever met. I didn’t meet him until he was Hector.”

“How do you know?” Xander asked.

Achilles swallowed some wine and then turned and squinted a bit at his companion.

“…What do you mean?”

“You must have been someone before you were Achilles, and he was someone before he was Hector, so how do you know it was the first time you met? Maybe you had met before, and neither of you remembered. Just like I didn’t know you when I saw you for the first time outside my brother’s gate.”

Achilles just stared at him, struck.

“You said you weren’t sure why you didn’t kill him in the temple. Maybe that’s why. Maybe there’s no way you could ever have killed him. Maybe you’d been together before.”

Achilles was overcome for a moment. “We,” he finally corrected. “Maybe we had been together before.”

Xander nodded, his head tilting a bit to the side. Then he smiled. “Maybe we have been together before. Maybe we’ve been together many times. But neither of us can remember it all.”

Achilles felt like some sort of beautiful flower was blooming in his stomach. 

Their mutual gaze was broken by a call from the dock. 

“Achilles! Achilles!” 

He rose and went to look. In the last bit of blue glow from twilight, he saw Cole standing at the end of the dock, waving his arms back and forth.

The warrior cupped his hand to his mouth.

“Here!” He called.

Cole put his arms down. “It’s Zoe! It’s time!”

Achilles turned back to Xander. “Cover the brazier and bring the lantern. It’s time to go to the compound.”


	3. Zoe

The three men sat at the dining room table, well supplied with wine, and waited. For Karan and Achilles, it was very similar to the first time Zoe gave birth. The women were there, Aunt Sophia was there, the bustling and talk, the transport of sheets and towels was all familiar to them now.

For Xander, it was new. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Does it always take this long?”

“Oh yes,” Karan assured him. He was less nervous this time, for Zoe had survived the first birth, and Aunt Sophia had assured him that the first was always the most difficult.

“This child looks larger,” was Achilles’ opinion. It was true. Zoe was much bigger this time. But Leo had been a small baby.

“Who is the woman with Aunt Ophelia?” Xander asked.

“Wet nurse. Aunt Sophia said this time to have one on hand just in case.” Karan said.

“In case what?” Xander looked concerned.

“Well… if Zoe were to be very ill afterwards, or…” Karan gave an expressive gesture with his hand.

Aunt Sophia came out to give her report. “The pains are still some time apart. It won’t be for hours yet,” she said. She gave Achilles a bit of a side-eye, but left again without addressing him directly.

“Have you picked out names?” Xander asked, trying to think of something to say.

“Sophia if it’s a girl… Aunt Sophie will like that.” Karan smiled. “Darius for a boy.”

“Darius,” Achilles smiled as well. “You always did like that name.”

Karan looked a bit puzzled, but his god did not explain himself. They all took another drink of wine.

In the silence, they ruminated, each in their own thoughts. Then, Achilles lifted his head, as if he heard something. The brothers looked at him, and then at each other as they faintly heard a male voice shouting in the distance. It sounded as if it were coming from the road outside the gate. They all turned attentively, listening.

“Xander! Achilles!” 

“Is that Dru?” Xander got up and went outside to investigate.

In the ensuing moments of solitude, Achilles reached over to Karan and touched his fingers, fondling them silently. Karan smiled into his eyes, and they sat like that for a moment.

“Hector’s horse was named Darius,” Achilles finally told him.

Karan gave a short laugh. “I see. I’ll be naming my son after a horse.”

“It was a pretty fine horse,” Achilles informed him.

When Xander’s footsteps signaled his return, they withdrew their hands. He came in quickly, looking disturbed.

“Dru says Boe has lighted the signal fire.”

“Saracens? NOW?” Karan could hardly believe the bad luck. The neighboring town under attack the night his wife went into labor?

“We have to go,” Xander said. “We promised. They’ll never cooperate with us again if we don’t go now.”

Karan nodded. “Yes, you must go. God, they can’t be allowed to come here, if nothing else.”

The brothers embraced quickly, and Xander headed for the gate. Achilles and Karan gripped each other’s hands and pulled themselves close together for a moment. Karan pressed his cheek to his god’s. 

“Come back safely,” he breathed.

Achilles gave him a loving look and followed Xander out of the compound. 

The plan was simple: light the signal fire at the waterfront; all volunteers meet at the dock. When Achilles and Xander arrived, Timon had already notified the elders of the town, and the signal fire was burning. Word raced from house to house, and men on horseback went into the hills to more remote estates. The message went out: Saracen attack! All hands on deck!

Within an hour, enough men had responded for the _Hector_ to launch, with the stragglers assigned to the _Odysseus_ with Timon and Dru.

Achilles guided the rowers while Xander peered from the bow at the moonlit waters. The signal fire from Boe was their guide, but Saracen ships were black, and it occurred to them only now that with their two white ships, the enemy would spot them first.

But even that might work in their favor; Saracens preyed on those with no defenses. Any evidence of a fight back might frighten them into retreat. Achilles stared at the signal fire and felt how much he wanted the wind to come and speed their journey. He thought about it intently, imagining the wind on his back, blowing his hair forward.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, just as he’d imagined, filling the two sails, and the _Hector_ made good time up the coast. 

Soon, there were more fires to guide them: the Saracens had set fire to several buildings on Boe’s waterfront, and the Greeks had fought back by setting fire to one of the black ships. The blaze enabled Xander to discern two other ships nearby.

“Achilles,” he shouted back, and pointed.

Achilles held up a fist to the rowers on the starboard side, allowing the port rowers to turn the ship. When even he could see the black sails looming up beside them, the warrior went to the rail and heaved a grappling hook at the pirate ship, hooking them together.

“Arm up!” He directed the men behind him, and they dropped the oars and grabbed their weapons. Achilles turned and pulled on the rope, bringing the two ships together. The waves and their momentum were already driving the _Hector_ against the pirate ship, but his strength sped up the process significantly.

There was a crash when the hulls came into contact, the waves lapping agitatedly between them. Then came the cries of furious Greeks leaping up onto the rail and over it, boarding the pirate ship with orders to kill any Saracen they encountered. 

As before, most of the crew were gone to maraud in the town, but the ones left behind met a grisly fate. The volunteers of Xander’s budding navy may have been farmers and merchants, but they were Greek, and they were angry. They’d trained a year for this.

And they had Achilles, who found that his joy in combat was unabated by the months of contentment he’d found in Rhamnus. Here once again came the forces that would destroy his Hector’s world. His face was as intense as it was the day his ship hit the beach at Troy, and his blue eyes gleamed with pleasure as he efficiently sliced and skewered his way about the pirate ship. The screams and howls of battle were still music to Achilles.

When the ship was cleared, they set fire to it and leapt back aboard the _Hector._ The flames raced up the masts and lit up the sails, making a massive torch in the night. Achilles slapped his hands on the rail, bunched up his shoulders, and pushed them away, using all his considerable strength. He then turned and directed the rowers to the second ship. Once the Saracens had nowhere to retreat to, getting to the beach and slaughtering the lot of them would be much easier. 

He stared at the scene, glorying in the yellow fire’s reflection on the waves, and the cries of battle around him in the night. He was still a warrior, and felt with satisfaction that primal part of him awake and fresh, burning away any fatigue or yearning. The sword at his side dripped blood on the deck as he turned his head to look at the beach, eyes promising destruction.

By dawn, the battle was all but over. The beach was littered with bodies; a familiar sight to Achilles. He surveyed the mess with contentment, and then turned to wounded Greeks, laying on his hands and—while he still could not completely heal a deep laceration, he could improve their situation: stop the bleeding, prevent infection, ease pain.

Checking around, he found Xander trudging amongst the bodies, looking for his own. He had a gash across his ribs that Achilles laid his hands on, resting his blond head on his lover’s shoulder for a moment as he poured healing into him. 

After a minute, Xander caressed the blond locks. “It’s good now,” he murmured, and the two parted with a mutual glance of regard before continuing their respective missions. They were well into the morning before Xander came to him again and laid an urgent hand on his shoulder. 

“Zoe!” He said.

Aghast, Achilles realized he’d forgotten the poor woman, and left Xander to deal with the ship and crew.

He borrowed a horse from a grateful villager, and headed back to Rhamnus by land. Going by brisk trot, so as not to exhaust his startled and unfamiliar mount, Achilles reached the compound at noon.

What he found made him forget the battle he’d left behind him.

The compound was silent. There was no one there to open the gate, so Achilles climbed over the wall, his sword clanking at his side, and landed inside. The place looked deserted. 

“Karan?” He called uneasily, moving across the packed dirt of the yard to the house. He entered to find Aunt Sophia sitting at the dining table with her sleeves pushed up and her head in her hands.

Coming forward, the warrior reached to touch her shoulder, but seeing that his own hands were bloody, he drew back.

She looked up at him, and he was made more uneasy than ever by her face. She looked as if she’d aged over the course of the night.

“She died. Zoe died.” Sophia said huskily.

Achilles drew in his breath. “How long ago?” He asked, wondering if there was anything he could have done if he’d returned sooner.

“Daybreak,” she said quietly. “The babies wouldn’t come out.”

“Babies?” Achilles asked.

“There are two,” she said.

“Where are they? Where is everyone?” Achilles asked, and she nodded in the direction of the master bedroom.

With trepidation, he went to the well outside and drew up water to wash his bloody hands and face. Then, he removed his sword. When he’d made himself as decent as he could, he re-entered the house and went to the master bedroom.

He found Karan sitting quietly by the bed, with a baby in each arm, both wrapped in clean blankets. Zoe was on the bed, pale and still. Her aunts had already cleaned her and wrapped her body in white sheets. They’d combed her hair down, and made her look as peaceful as possible. Now, two of them sat on the other side of the bed, heads together, commiserating quietly. They spared Achilles a long glance, and returned to their soft consultations.

Achilles hovered uncertainly, looking at his lover’s bent head, and the dark curls he adored so much. After a moment, Karan raised his head to look at his angel, and to Achilles’ surprise, his dark eyes looked remarkably calm. The warrior looked from Karan, to Zoe’s body, to the babies. That was when he realized that the babies were alive.

Blinking with puzzlement, he came and knelt down before Karan, putting his hands on his love’s knees, and his face close to the tiny creatures, rather like a large dog perusing kittens. They were pink. They were breathing. 

“They’re alive?” He was amazed.

Karan nodded slightly, looking down at them again with a look Achilles could not identify. It was more than pride. It was a brooding satisfaction, mixed with a bit of shock.

“Your aunt said they wouldn’t come out?” Achilles found he didn’t want to speak too loudly, as if he would disturb Zoe. But she would never be disturbed again.

“No. They couldn’t come out. She died trying, but they couldn’t come out.” Karan said. His eyes were truly odd, Achilles thought.

“Then…?”

Karan looked up at him again. “I cut them out,” he said calmly.

Achilles sank back a bit, staring at him, eyes wide.

“She died, and I knew they’d die too, inside her. So I took a knife—“ Karan stopped and looked back down at his children.

Achilles was speechless. He could imagine Xander doing something like this, but Karan? Gentle Karan?

“I had to,” Karan said, as if Achilles had accused him of an atrocity. “I couldn’t let them die too.”

His warrior nodded blankly, and looked again at Zoe. Even in death, her face looked exhausted. 

“It’s what she would have wanted me to do,” Karan added quietly.

Achilles nodded again, still stunned. He’d slaughtered hundreds of men, but the thought of Karan being forced to cut into the woman he’d shared his bed and his life with for two years made him dizzy. He didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a girl and a boy,” Karan added, looking from one to the other. 

Finally, Achilles said, “we defeated the Saracens. It was only three ships this time. I left Xander and came over land… I should have come sooner.”

Karan shook his head. “You couldn’t. You couldn’t let an entire village burn for this.”

Achilles gazed up at the dark circles under the deep brown eyes. This eerie calm was part shock, he was certain.

“Have you slept?”

Karan shook his head.

“Can you give the children to the nurse and come lie down?”

His Hector seemed to think it over, and finally nodded, rising carefully from his seat. He turned and gave a speechless look of pleading to the women, and they held out their experienced hands for the babies. After a last long look at them, and at Zoe, Karan turned, and now Achilles could see how shaky and unsteady he was.

“Come,” he said, leading him out. “Come rest.”


	4. Tug of War

Xander considered himself remarkably patient. He knew others saw him as abrasive and abrupt, but he knew himself to have an enormous capacity for waiting. He’d searched for years for his family, never giving up. When he found them and they rejected him, he retreated back to Ithaca only to hunt for the woman who had been his mother’s closest friend, intending to get what information he could from her and return to try again.

When he returned and found them still resistant, he retreated to his boat intending to try yet another approach. Only when Achilles had come to him had any headway been made, but however it came about, Xander considered himself adept at waiting.

So he waited now. Achilles had gone to the compound on the day of the Saracen attack, only to find that Zoe had died—that did cause Xander a pang—and Karan was rather in shock at the gruesome act he’d been forced to commit to save the babies. Not surprisingly, even after the funeral, attended by the entire extended family, Achilles stayed at the compound. Karan should not be left alone at a time like this. 

Well, he wasn’t really alone, though, was he? He had three children, three house servants, six field hands, a wet nurse and her child, two aunts, and Cole, the foreman, all there. But his wife was gone. And she’d been a good wife. So Xander understood that Karan needed the companionship of—here Xander grimaced—his lover with whom he’d been unfaithful to that good wife for over a year.

Not that Xander had any grounds for moral crusading. He’d joined them quite a few times in their evening revels. It was amazing how forgiving and tolerant shared guilt could make one.

Nevertheless, what it came to was that Karan was now a widower, and Achilles—his real love—was settling in quite comfortably as his mainstay. Which meant that Xander was alone on his ship, and by that one should understand that he was actually completely alone. No servants. No children. No aunts. No Achilles. Him alone in front of the brazier at night, silently watching the meat cook. Alone.

But Xander was a patient man, which was why he waited three full weeks after Zoe’s funeral to come from his ship and pay another visit. 

The compound looked as it ever had. The chickens scattered as Xander stalked through their afternoon gathering. The servant who had come to the gate held the door for him as well, and he entered the cool shade of the small entry that led to the dining room. No one was about.

He went to the spare room that he usually pretended to occupy when he and Achilles would visit, and threw his cloak across the bed, and removed his sandals. Then he turned and looked across the hallway to eye the door to Achilles’ room. It was slightly ajar.

Xander pushed the door quietly open and found Karan and Achilles clothed, but napping in a comfortable embrace. A slow burn started in his chest. He came forward and seated himself quietly at the foot of the bed, drawing up one knee, and watched both pairs of eyes slowly open and turn his way.

Karan blinked at him and pulled back a bit from his entanglement. “Has something happened?” He asked sleepily.

“Not at all,” Xander said steadily. Achilles’ eyes widened a bit. He seemed to understand immediately what was afoot.

Karan sat up and rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

Xander shrugged. “Not late. Mid afternoon.”

Karan got up. “I’ll check on the children,” he mumbled, and left the room, not seeming particularly aware of his brother’s mood. The slow wag of Xander’s knee back and forth looked, to Achilles, a bit like the way a cobra sways before it strikes.

Xander and Achilles were left alone to eye each other.

“Remember me? The other one?” Xander finally said.

“You could have come here weeks ago,” Achilles pointed out softly.

“It’s not my home.”

“It would be if you’d let it be.”

“No, it would be my brother’s home, and I a guest in it, just as before.”

“And he is a guest on your ship when you patrol and he comes along, what is wrong with that?” Achilles’ blue eyes were not as placid as they had recently been.

Xander simmered a bit. Finally he said, “I think we both know they are not equivalent.”

“You want a bigger ship? I’ll buy you one. You want an estate? I’ll buy you one,” Achilles sat up suddenly, giving Xander a very direct stare.

“I want you. Karan got the estate. I get you. I think that’s fair.” 

Achilles’ gaze lowered a bit, became pensive. 

“I guess you don’t miss me when I’m not around,” Xander said drily.

“I do,” Achilles contradicted. “I like it best when you’re together—when we’re all together.” He corrected. 

“Neither of us is completely Hector, hm?” Xander said quietly, eyes dark and alert. “Not quite whole.”

Achilles looked up at him quickly, uneasy. This was not how he wanted his presence to make either of them feel. He turned and rose from the bed, putting his feet into his sandals.

When he left the bedroom, Xander lingered, brooding at the two indentations on the pillows. Then he followed. They emerged from the hall to find Karan in the courtyard, consulting with the aunts over the babies’ feeding schedules. He saw Achilles preparing to leave and broke off, coming back inside.

“What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

Xander turned to him. “I’m taking Achilles back to the ship.”

The warrior turned his head and gave him a look, not entirely sure he liked being spoken of like a horse, or a hunting dog.

“Why, has something happened? Are they back?” Karan was concerned.

Xander gave him a long look. “No. I want Achilles back where he belongs, with me. That’s all.”

“Belongs?” Karan was taken aback. 

Xander waved his hand to indicate all their surroundings. “You have this…”

Now Karan understood. His eyes grew large, and his lips thinned. His breathing seemed to grow deeper. He looked at Achilles.

“I see you agree. You’re ready to leave,” he said quietly.

Achilles clenched his teeth. “I won’t be far away. I won’t stay away.”

“No, you won’t stay away, will you?” Xander remarked coolly. “You couldn’t stay away when he was married, you certainly won’t now he’s a widower.”

Karan’s breath came faster. “You don’t love him. You just want to make sure I go without something.”

Xander took a step toward his brother, head lowering warningly. “You have no idea what I do or do not love.”

Karan snapped back, “I think I have an excellent idea what you love. You love it when you feel like you’ve won.”

Xander replied instantly, “I would not know. That’s a feeling you’re more accustomed to than I am.”

Achilles stood by tensely, wanting only that this stop. The twins were glaring at each other now, looking more identical than he’d ever seen them.

Karan snorted. “You just want to take something from me. You wouldn’t want him if I didn’t love him.”

Xander gave an angry laugh, “Oh, you cannot believe that. You just feel that he was yours first, and therefore he’s yours completely.”

“Why don’t we let him choose?” Karan said, fist clenching.

“We let him choose after the first attack, and you may remember, he chose to go with me,” Xander taunted.

“Circumstances have changed, though, haven’t they? You used to rail at me for having Zoe. I have her no longer!”

“No, you have her three children and my estate! But now there’s just one more thing, isn’t there?”

Suddenly, Achilles was repulsed by the entire situation. Disturbed. Anxious. He turned with his customary lack of reflection and simply strode out of the house, through the compound, and out the gate. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Karan bit out.

Wide-eyed, Xander ran after their god, but Achilles was moving decisively.  
When he got to the road, his stride lengthened to a jog, and thence to a run. He streaked down the sun-dappled hill, blond hair flying behind him, and made for the distant, sparkling blue water of the sea. When he finally reached it, he got into his boat, leaned over, and put his fingers in the water.

_Mother,_ he thought. He stared at the water till a channel grew smooth, and when he pulled his fingers from the water, his boat turned itself obligingly, entered the channel, and drew away from the dock.

Xander arrived at the waterfront in time to see his lover in the small fishing boat cutting through the water with abnormal speed on a smooth watery path that led away from the shore and toward the horizon. Aghast, he ran to the water’s edge, staring in disbelief, but the boat drew further and further away, and Achilles did not look back.


	5. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a god just needs his mother.

The journey was the work of an afternoon. Achilles’ boat hit the sand as the sun was setting, and he stepped out and looked around, realizing suddenly what an utter relief it was to be home. He made for the steps and was surprised to see Luke waiting for him at the bottom with a broad grin.

“Your mother said you’d be coming,” he gave the warrior a good strong hug. “She’s been predicting it for a week. _Any minute now it’s going to erupt,_ she said.” Luke looked remarkably cheerful about the prospect.

Achilles gave him a shaming look. Luke grinned back, impervious.

“Come see all the work I’ve done. Your mother had marble delivered, and I’ve been chiseling away.”

They mounted the steps and Achilles entered the colonnade, looking around in appreciation. It was still a study in elegant decay, but some of the areas that had been a little too elegant when it rained had been patched up quite smoothly, and the vines were rather less aggressive in their claims on pillars and walkways. He nodded. It was better.

His mother came forward from her customary perch near the fountain, and he was startled to see that she appeared quite a bit younger than he remembered her looking. Either his perceptions had changed, or she had been tinkering with her elixirs and tonics since getting involved with Luke. They embraced, and Achilles felt his head grow heavy as if in relief at being back on the island.

When they drew apart to gaze at each other, Thetis noted how tired his eyes looked. She nodded.

“You’re starting to make the transition,” she said.

Achilles felt a trace of concern. “Transition?”

“From an old human to a young god,” she told him simply. “Come, have some fruit. You haven’t been eating enough of it.”

He went with her and soon they were all three reclining on cushions in the shade, near the fruit trees and the fountain. Achilles looked around to see the two handmaids calmly weaving baskets nearby. They looked like the same ones, but he found that hard to believe.

“So,” his mother said once they were comfortable. “They’re fighting over you.”

Achilles sighed and lay back, closing his eyes. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised you weren’t enjoying it more. To think of all the times you’ve had to use your wiles to get even compliance. I remember you chasing him around here with rope.”

Luke smiled, lifting his eyebrows as he imagined that.

“I know. But it all seems so much more serious now,” Achilles said, almost to himself.

“More serious?” His mother looked puzzled. “I’d have thought it was less serious, now that you have so many years of experience with humans and their petty little dramas.”

“It’s not petty to them,” Achilles murmured. “I hate to see either of them unhappy.”

Thetis gave him a sharp glance, and then concentrated on paring an apple, and cutting it into slices. “You used to terrorize him.”

“I was trying to distract him,” he defended drowsily.

“Mm hmm,” his mother said, and then looked at him. “Eat this apple.”

Achilles took a slice and ate it, and then another. With every bite, he seemed to sink deeper into a restful stupor. Luke sat and watched, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it.

Thetis watched her son with her usual distant compassion. Finally, she leaned over him and put her hand on his forehead.

“Sleep.”

Achilles slept. He sank like a man falling backward, feeling as though his brain had been too hot for too long, and now was afforded the chance to cool. His body went lax on the cushions, his head rolled to the side, and he slept the way small children sleep when their parents are nearby, and they feel utterly safe.

He slept, and dreamed of sunlight coming and going and coming again, flickering past his eyelids in hypnotic rotation. Achilles slept so deeply, and so soundly, that when he became aware again, he was startled to find that he was in his bed in the chamber he’d shared with Hector so many, many years ago. He thought the fire pit was glowing, and rolled toward it, seeing his mother come forward with a chalice.

“Drink this,” she recommended, and he lifted himself up blearily long enough to swallow whatever it was, before drifting back under again.

“How long will you let him sleep?” He heard Luke say. But he was asleep before he heard the answer:

“Long enough for his twins to learn how to work together. Long enough for them to miss him so much they forget to blame each other,” Thetis said.

“How long will that take?” Luke was rather concerned.

“I don’t know. We’ll watch in the ball, and he’ll sleep. He needs to sleep here, and eat my food, and drink my tonics. The world is getting harder. He needs to be stronger. This idyllic time is going to slip away. Dark times are coming.”

“We’d better not let him sleep away this time, then,” Luke said carefully.

“No. A season or two should be enough. We’ll wake him then,” Thetis promised. 

Achilles lay with his face buried in his pillow. It was a relief to let his mother take over for a while. Even young gods need their mother sometimes. It was enough to sleep, and wake long enough to drink when she bade him to, and sleep again. He felt as though he had not slept in years, as if during the eras of Hector and Philip and Hermenegild, he had been a soldier on watch, guarding his beloved, and had only napped lightly, ready to spring awake at the sound of a threat. Now, his head was a stone, and the world spun under him, and he slept.

Eventually, however, the feeling of heaviness began to lighten. Instead of sinking, he was floating. And then finally, instead of floating, he was rising, very slowly, like smoke.

Finally the morning came when Achilles awoke feeling clear, and rested, and not at all bleary. It was a clear, beautiful morning. He stretched, feeling a tingling buzz of contentment. It was an unusual feeling to be without his Hector, and yet be happy. He lay sprawled on his bed, naked under the twisted sheets, and marveled that his very skin seemed alive with a sort of glowing resilience.

Finally, he came from his bed and saw that the handmaids had prepared a steaming bath for him. He felt as though he should be hungry. He could feel the emptiness inside, but it wasn’t painful or urgent. Slowly, he eased himself into the bath and groaned. If he thought he felt good before! The water flowed over him, softer than seawater, slicker somehow, and just hot enough to bite. He sank in deep and wallowed in it.

At last Achilles emerged, bathed and oiled, in a fresh, new tunic of soft weave, hair drying down his back. He padded out onto the colonnade to join the others, marveling at the platter of fruits before him. He sat down without comment, helping himself to the food and drink.

His mother and Luke sat very close to one another, murmuring softly. After he’d eaten and blinked contentedly at the morning a few times, his mother turned to him.

“Would you like to see your twins in the ball?”

Achilles tipped his head in puzzlement.

“Come,” she said, rising, and he heaved himself back up again and followed after her placidly.

In a remote corner of the maze of half-crumbled rooms and corridors, she brought him to a ball of glass on a marble pedestal. It was the size of very pregnant belly, he thought.

“Now, you place your hands here and here, and think of who you want to see,” she told him brightly. “My father gave it to me.”

Achilles scowled at it for a moment, as he often did at new things, and then leaned over it, placing his hands as directed. After a moment, he saw Karan with a baby on each knee. The babies were no longer newborns, but big enough to sit without support. Undoubtedly they were crawling now.

He stepped back, alarmed. “How much time has passed?”

Thetis looked thoughtful. “Karan had just planted corn when you left. Now it’s being harvested.”

Achilles stared at her in shock. 

She smiled back calmly. “This is how time passes for us. But now you’ve rested, and they have missed you, I think you might go back safely enough.”

“I never meant to be gone so long!” He told her.

“I know. You’re impatient,” she sighed. “Go back now, then.”

He bade her good-bye, and gave Luke another quick hug. They watched him disappear down the steps, and Luke rubbed his knuckles reflectively. 

“He’s changing,” he observed. “I mean, physically. He looks different somehow. How is that? I eat the same fruit.”

Thetis smiled. “But you don’t drink the same drinks.”

Achilles flew down the steps to his boat, which bobbed in the water just where he’d left it, as if only a night had gone by. He stepped in, put his fingers to the water, and thought, “My Hectors. My twins. My Xander. My Karan.”

The channel grew smooth for him, and the boat went to it like a horse to grass.

***.

It was early evening in the compound when Xander came from the stables to the well. He drew up water to drink, and wash his hands and face with. Then taking up the towel that lay on the stone edge, he went into the house, drying his face as he came. Karan, he found, was in the library.

“New colt doing well,” he said, entering.

Karan was marking up accounts in the ledger. “Good. I don’t think we’ll need to sell him after all. It was a good year.”

“Good year for fish, too,” Xander remarked, and they both smiled.

“Uncle Jorges still unconscious in the spare room?” Karan asked.

“No, he finally woke up and stumbled home.” Xander said, sitting down across the desk from his brother.

“That’s the sign of a good family dinner; when the uncles are too drunk to walk a mile home. Tomorrow we can start harvesting the corn.”

“Tomorrow we patrol,” Xander reminded him, and Karan sat back in his chair.

“Oh yes. Alright. I’ll let Cole handle it.”

There was a tap at the library door, and the twins turned to see one of the house servants hovering, wide-eyed.

“Yes?” Karan asked.

She paused for a moment, as if aware that she had but one chance in life to utter something significant that would garner both her masters’ full attention. Finally, she told them, “It’s Achilles. He’s here! Achilles has returned!” 

Karan and Xander both stood quickly, wide-eyed, breath in-drawn… and then glanced at each other. Xander swallowed, “You go first.”


	6. Return

Karan stepped into the dining room to see Achilles standing in a simple white tunic, his head turned, staring at the just-lit candles. His hair was slightly longer and seemed somehow lighter and smoother. His skin was brown and glowing. He was even more beautiful than before. When he turned to look at Karan, there was a brighter glow in his blue eyes.

Karan hesitated, unnerved, but Achilles’ full lips curved in a smile and he came forward, his gaze loving. The initial impression faded and Karan was aware only of the gratitude and joy of seeing his angel again. Achilles fit into his arms warmly, and tightly, and Karan wrapped himself around this magical armful, and dropped his head to nuzzle that silken hair. It smelled fresh, like exotic herbs and the outside. Their bodies pressed together and heat bloomed wherever they touched.

“Oh, God,” Karan whispered, suddenly aware of the ache in his chest that he’d grown accustomed to—it was made evident by its abrupt dissipation. He wanted to cry, and bit at his lips to keep the impulse back in his throat and behind his eyes. The last months vanished, and he had his lover in his arms once more.

Finally, most reluctantly, Karan released the muscular form and stepped back. Achilles looked beyond him to see Xander hovering at the doorway from the library as if uncertain of what greeting to expect. Achilles went to him, and Xander reached out to touch the smooth skin of one golden shoulder. The warrior opened his arms to him and Xander sank into them exactly as Karan had done, closing his eyes in relief, and squeezing hard.

When they finally released each other, the three stood in silence for a moment. Then Xander asked what both brothers wanted most to know.

“Are you back to stay?”

“I want to be. But I can’t choose between you,” Achilles said simply. There was much more he could have said, that they were both Hector, both his love, that he treasured war-like Xander every bit as much as loving Karan, that he did not want to be without either of them, ever. But self-explanation was never part of his nature, and he was less inclined than ever to be expository. He just gazed at them both with all his adoration, and waited.

Karan and Xander looked at each other and then Xander nodded, as if granting Karan permission to speak for them both.

“You don’t have to. We both live here now. We’re committed to making this estate a worthy one for Leo, and to build something for the two younger as well.”

Achilles looked at Xander. 

“I’ll never have children,” Xander said. “I don’t want to marry. Karan’s blood is my blood, and these children carry my blood … and Zoe’s. She would want her children to be well-set in life.”

Achilles nodded. “I’ll help you both however I can. Always.”

They both stared raptly at him for several moments, and then Karan blinked and became host. “This calls for celebration… I’ll have the servants lay out an evening meal for us. We’ll get the best of Uncle Jorges’ wine!”

“Yes,” Xander said, coming forward. “Have them lay out an early dinner, and then dismiss them to their wing of the house. We won’t be needing their hovering tonight,” he said meaningfully, and his eyes took on a gleam.

Achilles smiled. There was nothing he wanted more than a few bites of meat and a drink or two of wine, and then… then to be their object, all obedience.

And so it was. He sat with them, saying but little, eating but little, and listened to their talk of the past months, of the men in the village who were taking more responsibility onto themselves for their budding navy. Of the livestock and crops, and concerns of the estate. Of the development of the children, and the saga of finding nannies who would dote on them as much as Karan and the aunts felt was necessary. Of the antics of Dru, who was getting his first four or five whiskers now, and was very proud of them. Of Xander’s progress in learning to read, studying mostly Ovid and Herodotus. He nodded often, smiled often, and gazed upon them both with contented love.

When the candles burned down and they were certain the servants and children were all well settled in for the night, Karan went to his bed and threw back the covers, that it would look as if it had been slept in. But it wouldn’t be.

Xander went to his room and cleaned himself, and took an unlit candle to Achilles’ room.

Walking in, he saw that Achilles was already in the bed, naked, and waiting for his masters, with a single candle.

Smiling, Xander brought his candle to the warrior. “Light this?”

With a smirk, Achilles pinched it, and released it when it flamed up.

“Was Luke on your mother’s island?” Xander asked, remembering the _you light it, I blow it out game_ that had so amused them when in their cups.

“He was,” Achilles said quietly, eyes calm and peaceful.

Xander moved around the bed, placing the candle on the opposite side, his side, and shucked his tunic, sliding into the bed and moving his god’s limbs and body until he was settled behind him, as he preferred to be, and Achilles was resting against Xander’s chest, his head falling passively back over the shoulder that cradled him. Xander put his face to the blond hair and inhaled, running his fingers over the full, smooth muscles of his warrior’s chest as they waited for Karan.

“Did you miss us on your island, or did you have diversions there?” Xander probed.

Achilles smiled. “I slept most of the time,” he murmured, feeling the fingertips tracing lightly over his skin.

“But you had slaves?”

Achilles turned his face to bury his nose up under Xander’s defined jawline. “No.”

Xander caressed the long column of throat displayed by this nuzzle. “You have no other lovers?”

Achilles opened his eyes. “I have touched no one but you since the day we fought outside the gates of Troy.”

Moved, Xander’s hand wandered more insistently, and he could feel himself growing hard and ready as he pressed up against the satiny skin of that perfect, naked buttock that rested against his hip.

“So you belong to us,” Xander breathed.

Achilles arched his back and opened his arms, as aroused by those words as by the hands running over his chest and belly, fingers edging down toward his groin. When he’d first taken Hector as his unwilling lover, and hovered darkly over him down by the candlelit pool in the palace of Troy, he’d thought nothing could be so sweet as to have the prince as his willing slave. Now it seemed there was something even sweeter: to have the prince as his ardent master.

The door opened and Karan joined them, placing the third candle on the table by the door. Without a word, he disrobed and joined them. Xander gave him the pot of oil, and watched him rub it slowly into their reclining golden angel. Soon, Xander held out a hand for a bit of it, and joined his brother in anointing Achilles. They moved with slow, concentrating intent, eyes fixed on the skin they caressed. Xander moved him into the positions they wanted, and held him there while Karan massaged and teased him. 

When his entire body was gleaming, Karan moved down to the hard cock that was straining for attention. He slicked it up, and Achilles groaned. Xander, still behind him, slid his hands down around the tight balls, sliding his fingers behind them to hold them up for Karan’s attentions. They both watched the defined, muscular torso heave with their angel’s quickening breath as they toyed slowly with him.

Karan pushed his god’s legs apart and knelt between the powerful thighs, stroking them lovingly, his fingers going up and up until both brothers were fondling his cock and balls again, and Achilles’ mind was awash with sensations too overwhelming to sort.

Xander drew back and tapped Karan on the shoulder, pointing to the spot on the bed at Achilles’ side.

“Let him take you,” he whispered.

Karan moved up the bed and lay on his stomach, turning his head to gaze at his angel. Xander handled their slave just a bit roughly, pushing him to mount. Then he knelt at their side, his fingers sliding between Achilles’ buttocks to prod him. Karan closed his eyes, holding his breath as his angel penetrated him very slowly, very carefully, kissing the nape beneath the dark curls as he did so.

Xander watched the muscles of Achilles back and buttocks bunch and move as he worked the slow invasion. He caressed his own hard length with the oil-slick fingers of one hand, his other hand burying itself deeper in Achilles. When their lover was finally seated fully in, Xander pulled them to roll to their sides so he could enter Achilles.

The guttural tones of their lover buried themselves in Karan’s dark curls. Achilles slid his cock into Karan while Xander thrust into him from behind, pushing him deeper. Karan threw back an arm and Xander grabbed it, and the two could set to work squeezing Achilles between them in a tight, hot grip. Their thrusts were grinding and muscular, and the three of them acquired a light sheen of sweat that made their skin glow in the light of the three candles.

Karan pushed back against Achilles, and Xander thrust him forward with his hips. Achilles, his blond hair over his face, gloried in the sensations of his Hectors using him for their pleasure, gripping his arms, biting his neck, tangling his legs, riding him in faster gyrations until Karan grabbed one his angel’s hands and brought it to his own cock, demanding silently that he stroke it while Xander fucked him harder.

Panting, Achilles blinked and concentrated on pleasing Karan, and when he felt the release pumping through his fingers, he squeezed and plunged into his lover, feeling himself clamp down on Xander, who growled behind him and clutched his hips, thrusting as deep as he could before coming too. The three of them writhed together in chaotic synchronicity, tight together, faces furrowed in concentration until Achilles gasped and convulsed. Instinctively, they both pushed hard against him, holding him tightly as his hips pumped helplessly between until his pleasure peaked, and gripped him, and held him suspended for a long, agonized moment.

When they finally collapsed together, and went limp, Xander’s hand was still restlessly caressing his lover’s side, and Karan turned his head to press his temple to his angel’s forehead. Achilles lay between them, satisfied and warm, feeling his Hectors touching him everywhere. Here was perfect peace, and he intended to revel in it for as long as fate allowed.

In the morning, he woke first. Both twins were still in his bed, and they’d all rotated in the night. He was cradling Xander, and Karan was flush up against him from behind. Their legs were in a glorious tangle. Achilles lay in the bed, Xander’s curls in his face, the musky scent of them both all around him. Then he opened his eyes and gazed at the wealth of dark hair in satisfaction until his vision sharpened and he saw, at Xander’s temple, two white hairs sweeping back with the dark ones.

His sleepy bliss receded and he stared at them, aware once more that the sands were running through the hourglass. Achilles swallowed and closed his eyes again, pushing the awareness back. He would learn to treasure the moments and the memories he had, he told himself. But the sudden ache in his throat refused to be swallowed completely away.


	7. Twenty Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by. Time always goes by.

Achilles came back ashore to his mother’s island, face blank and tired as he dragged the little fishing boat out from the sea and up onto the warm sand. It was afternoon. His mother was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. He came to her and walked into her arms, and she held him for a long moment, realizing abruptly how lucky she was that her own lover was content to live on her island with her. Easy-going Luke had no burning ambitions or burdensome responsibilities that he longed to shoulder. He was content to lounge on cushions and admire her craftwork with seashells and beads.

“If only you had not fallen in love with someone so noble and lofty,” she told him finally, drawing back to cradle his somber face in her hands. Achilles just took a deep breath and let it out, like a weary animal. 

“Yes. Well. Come up and rest. You’ll need rest this time. You mustn’t run from grief any more. Come, grieve, remember, rest, think,” she recommended.

Silently, Achilles followed her up the stairs. There was no need to tell her anything. Thetis had her crystal ball. She’d watched them over the years, seen their little navy grow to four ships, and seen their occasional skirmishes with the sea scavenging Saracens. She’d watched Leo and Sophia and Darius grow into decent enough humans, and take over the estate. She’d watched Karan lie down one day, faint and unwell in his angel’s arms, and then smile and grow still. 

Thetis and Luke had even seen the funeral, watching quietly in the citadel. 

In the weeks after, Xander grew somber and reflective, and soon after the funeral, he wanted to leave the compound. He and Achilles spent a great deal of time on his ship again, sailing about the coast. And then, finally, Achilles brought him to the island. He’d had to talk Xander into it, however. 

“I’d only be hovering on the edge of death,” Xander said, staring out at the blue water. “It would be waiting for me right offshore.”

Achilles stood next to him, hands on the railing, breeze blowing his hair back as he looked at his remaining Hector. “And we could make it wait as long as we wanted.”

Xander didn’t answer immediately. He stood, his grey curls moving in that breeze. His neck and shoulders still fine and straight, but thinner now. His eyes were downcast and his lips compressed. The whiskers on his chin were white now.

Finally he spoke. “I don’t feel the same now that Karan is gone. When I was young, I always knew he was missing from my life. When I went looking for my family, and my birthright, I was also looking for him.” He paused and gave a weak, bittersweet huff of laughter. “I was so angry when he wanted nothing to do with me… and so relieved when you brought us together again.” He turned his head now and looked at Achilles. “I’m only half of the man you loved.”

Achilles’ eyes stung. He couldn’t deny it was true. It wasn’t that Xander wasn’t a full and complete human being; he certainly was. But there were elements of Hector that were missing, somehow… his more tender side. 

Had Achilles never known of Xander, and spent these years with Karan alone, he knew that he’d have found Karan, too, a sweet but curiously diluted Hector. He’d probably have written it off as a result of his situation: without the heavy burdens his previous Hectors had borne, perhaps that fierceness and resolve were in abeyance. The one and only time it had risen out of Karan was the night he stood over his dead wife, a knife in his hand, resolved to save his children by whatever gruesome means he must. 

That event had scarred him, too, Achilles knew. His original Hector had eventually re-married and fathered more children, but Karan had no interest in ever impregnating another woman. His three children were enough for him. Never mind that families in his area often featured nine or ten children. When the uncles had told him he was still a young man, he should remarry, Karan had shook his head silently, eyes distant, and Achilles knew exactly what he was remembering.

Nevertheless, Achilles would have happily ferried either of them to his mother’s island and cherished them for as long as they could bear it, and he felt that Xander needed to hear it.

“You can’t be willing to die just because you and I both miss Karan. Come to my mother’s island, at least for a little while. When you’re weary of it, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Wherever I want to die, you mean,” Xander said drily, and turned to stare back at the blue waves. But then, he added, “Very well. We’ll go.”

Achilles went to the main sail, pulled the starboard line to rotate it, and then turned his face toward home. The hold was empty, and the ship sat lightly in the water. Achilles stared toward his mother’s island and willed the wind to come and move them, and in a moment, he felt the breeze shift around obligingly and strengthen. The sail billowed out and they moved through the smooth channel that opened for them. 

By nightfall, Achilles was home. He dropped the anchor as close to shore as he could, and they waited for Luke to row out to meet them. Behind him, Xander lowered his head and put his hand to his chest, rubbing it distractedly. He dropped his hand before Achilles could notice.

To say that Xander enjoyed life on the island would be a bit strong: he was not miserable. He greeted Luke again with affection, and met Thetis with a pensive gaze that suggested there was something about her he found familiar. He settled in quietly. He laughed when he first saw the bedroom he’d share with Achilles, with its fire pit and ancient clay pots, and the crumbling walls.

“My God, you _are_ 2000 years old, aren’t you?” 

Achilles gave him a slap on the haunch and continued the tour. Xander was rather wonderstruck at the citadel, the fountain, the fruit trees… they went to the stables, where the horses greeted them with the kind of calm that comes from being a comfortably dumb animal that has lived for centuries.

“That’s Darius,” Achilles pointed. “Not the original Darius, of course.”

Xander went to the horse, and it extended its neck in a friendly fashion. Whether it remembered Hector or simply liked Xander, was difficult to say.

They walked about the island, and Xander breathed deep. “My chest doesn’t hurt,” he reported, and Achilles gave him a look of alarm.

“Had it begun already?” He asked.

Xander nodded, and went to the bluffs. He came to stand exactly where Hector always stood, and stared in the direction of Troy. Chills broke out over his warrior, who hung back and watched closely. It was something he wondered with every incarnation: how much of his original Hector was still there? He waited for a long moment, and Xander just stood, gazing Northeast.

Finally, Achilles came up to him. “What are you looking at?” He asked casually.

Xander shook his head vaguely. “I don’t know.”

In the following days, Achilles rowed out to the anchored ship and transported all of Xander’s belongings to shore for him. He found it gave him a strange joy to bring the books and maps into his cavernous bedroom.

Luke helped. “I’m going to patch up this wall for you,” he decided. “Books and maps don’t take moisture well, and when the rains come—it will be better if I patch it up.”

The ensuing activity was a project that entertained all four of them for some time. Achilles looked around often, wishing now that he had artifacts from them all. A wooden cross on the wall from the villa he’d bought for Philip, and Victor’s sword, and scrolls from the library Hermenegild had loved. He regretted now, a bit, that when he plunged into the sea, he left everything behind. Perhaps after this he would not. Perhaps he could even go back and find something? He wondered about it.

But evenings were pleasant. Achilles and Thetis both found that their human companions made for enough society and talk to fill the hours by the fire pit. Xander and Luke got along well, and the former asked the latter a great many questions about the past. The answers were edifying even to Achilles, filling in historical blanks in that lost period between Gades and Rhamnus. 

“Qadis, now they call it,” Luke said, his chalice dangling easily from his fingers. “The churchyard where you buried Hermenegild still exists. I can show you in the ball, if you like.”

Achilles lost himself for a moment in morbid imaginings of the remains of his prince. To him, it was only twenty years ago. But really, it was two hundred. Simon’s great grandchildren must have great grandchildren. And even they were old. Human life was as a flicker.

Nights back in his own bed with his Hector were more affectionate than lusty. They slept entangled, glad to be together, yet always aware of the empty space on Achilles’ left, where Karan should have been.

“If only you could keep him,” Thetis said one day, as she and her son lounged in the sunlight of the garden. Achilles looked as if she’d threatened to take his pet away.

“Why can’t I?” He returned immediately, staring at her.

“Oh you needn’t take that tone with me, I certainly won’t send him away,” Thetis answered sharply. Then her gaze softened again. “But look how he does. Every day, right up to that same spot on the bluffs, staring off.”

Achilles sighed and sank back on the cushions. “They all have that look. Always staring off at something. Some past home or future heaven.”

Thetis blinked reflectively. “He’s a restless spirit. I used to think you were a restless spirit, but once you found love, that restlessness vanished.”

Her son looked especially gloomy at that. “It’s because he doesn’t love me.”

“That’s not it,” she said. “It’s because he does not love _only_ you. Which is exactly why you love _him_. If he loved only you, you’d think there was something wrong with his brain.”

Achilles found himself smiling widely at this, although he didn’t know why. His mother smiled too, and soon they were both laughing. But when they sobered, Thetis made a prediction. 

“At some level, he feels incomplete without his brother, and he feels that you are shortchanged by having only him. And unlike the others, I believe he thinks often about the nature of this destiny, to live again, and leave behind the pains of previous existence.”

“But he leaves behind the good memories too,” Achilles complained.

His mother sighed. “Yes. But I think that pain makes a greater mark on one than pleasure. It may be worth it to humans, to forget.”

“I just wish he wouldn’t forget ME.”

“Remember Karan’s reaction when he first found you? He was drawn to you immediately. I think you are beginning to make an impression,” Thetis said, mostly to cheer him.

Achilles remembered something Xander had said once. “Xander thinks that even Hector was not my first. He says perhaps we met before. What do you know about that?”

Thetis thought it over. “I was always inclined to believe that you were the first of your kind. But I have no special knowledge of the matter.”

“Oh,” Achilles was disappointed. Then he thought of Ovid. “Have you ever seen the gods of old? Do we know for certain they even existed?”

His mother gave him an astounded look. “Well, no…” she admitted. “I only ever met my own family. But my father, I am certain he could attest to the reality of Poseidon.”

“But they’re all in another realm now,” Achilles said doubtfully. “Could they have simply … died? Can gods die?”

“Oh yes. If they want to, they certainly can,” Thetis said, disturbed. “Why are you asking these things?”

Achilles shrugged moodily. They both turned to see Xander coming back through the leafy arch that led from the citadel to the path from the bluffs. He gave Thetis a cordial nod and turned to Achilles. “May I speak with you?”

The warrior arose from his cushions and followed Xander, who led him down the stairs to where Luke’s fishing boat rested on the beach.

Xander turned and placed his hand on Achilles’ shoulder, his dark eyes intently searching the blue ones. “I’m ready to go,” he said abruptly.

Achilles paled. “We have not been here long,” he protested.

“It’s been many months,” Xander said.

“And you are ready to go? I had thought… you would at least like to live the normal lifespan of a man,” Achilles turned away from him and took a few steps, disturbed. 

“I want to be complete again,” Xander told him seriously. “Look, it’s a lovely island. But all we do is eat and sleep here. It’s not real life.”

“Not enough toil and misery for you?” Achilles snapped, blue eyes burning.

But Xander just smiled sadly. “No. Not enough. I want to get back on the wheel. And I want to be whole. And I want you to come find me. Come,” he went to Luke’s boat and climbed in.

Achilles came reluctantly and stood beside it. “Where are we going, exactly?”

Xander looked up at the sky. “Out to sea. It won’t take long. I can feel it looming.”

Achilles got in instantly and moved close to him, putting his hands on Xander’s chest. “You feel pain?”

“No,” his love said, gazing at him with those large, dark eyes, very little changed under the gray curls, only slightly tired. “I just feel that it’s time, and I want to begin again. Take me out to sea. Bury me in the deep. Then… come find me again.”

Eyes blurring, Achilles picked up the oars and began paddling. 

He returned in the afternoon, alone, and that was when his mother told him, “You mustn’t run from grief anymore,” and took him upstairs to rest.


	8. Transitioning

Achilles spent some time to absorb his losses. Looking about his bedchamber at Xander’s books and maps, he began to think of ways to commemorate them all. Luke rowed him to the nearest major island, where he bought himself passage to Qadis.

Landing in 8th century Qadis was not terribly different than arriving in 6th century Gades. The city was larger now, and any statues from the Visigoth and Roman era had vanished, replaced by tiled mosaic fountains. It was colorful and beautiful, and Achilles found that the variant of Latin spoken here had continued to evolve. It took him some time to adapt to the changing accent of the dialect, but eventually, he found his way about.

But enough had transformed to hurt him, a bit. The field of yellow flowers was gone, and a mansion was built there now. The villa he’d shared with Hermenegild was sunken and dilapidated, and apparently now housed the gardener of the larger estate that had been built up around it.

Fearlessly, Achilles went to the door. The man who answered it had long, drooping mustaches and dirty fingernails.

“I used to live here, long ago,” Achilles explained to him in his heavily accented version of the patois. “May I come in and look around?”

“What? No!” The fellow snapped at him, scowling.

Achilles opened his hand and offered a seashell of pure gold. “I’ll pay.”

That earned him a tour. The place was nearly unrecognizable, forlorn and dull, and stripped of any grace, but the library… the library turned out to be where they’d stored unwanted relics of yesteryear.

Achilles was beside himself, to stand in the library—most of the books were gone, and it was a dark cluttered landscape of broken and abandoned furniture and cobwebs, but he dug around and found something that nearly made him break down and cry. He grabbed the rusted frame of the dull, battered, dusty gong and extracted it from the wreckage.

“I want this.” He said.

The fellow shrugged, “Take it. And here, would you want this awful thing—“ he pointed to a large wooden crucifix that had once decorated Hermenegild’s chapel. Achilles was in quiet raptures. He offered the fellow another gold shell out of pure radiant happiness. “And these scrolls?”

The gardener gave a disgusted _Pfff_ and waved obligingly.

Thus began Achilles’ quest to uncover souvenirs from his previous Hectors. To the consternation of Thetis and the amusement of Luke, their local fisherman began arriving at the island not to sell them supplies but to deliver packages sent from varying places from her son, who was now ranging about the Mediterranean looking for items that could in some way stand as relics of his Hectors.

Thetis set the handmaidens to work cleaning the gong. “I suppose we just put it all in his room,” she mused, tipping her head quizzically at the battered looking thing. “Should I try to repair the dents?” 

“No,” Luke advised. He smiled, remembering how Hermenegild and Simon hated Achilles’ abuse of the gong. “No, polish it up, but leave the dents. The dents are important. They are part of its history.”

Thetis nodded. “I see. The gong is like Achilles, who guards his dents jealously.”

Luke stared at her, struck. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

She sighed and looked at the crucifix. “And what shall we do with this ghastly instrument of torture?”

Luke shrugged cheerfully. “Nail it to the wall!”

She shivered and walked away, “I leave that to you.”

The next items to arrive were from Rome: dried bulbs of yellow flowers, with a note in which Achilles indicated that he wanted the handmaidens to plant them out by the bluffs. Accordingly, the handmaidens planted them out by the bluffs.

“There’s something about that flower I don’t like,” Thetis said, and Luke nodded abstractedly. 

“Well, you never go out on the bluffs, so—“

She agreed.

Also in the rather large packages were a wooden carving of a Trojan horse, and an iron statue of a Trojan horse, and a beautiful silver modeling… of a Trojan horse, and finally, a large, blue and white woven rug. Thetis unrolled it to see it was decorated with the picture of a Trojan horse. With an irritated sigh, she directed the handmaidens to cart them all to Achilles’ room.

There was also an ancient, round shield of heavy bronze. Happily, it did not feature a Trojan horse. It featured a lion.

“I like this,” she said, and directed Luke and the handmaids to polish it and mount it on the wall over the shelves where the books and scrolls were accumulating.

There was a period of quiet. Some weeks went by.

Then, a delivery of ancient weapons arrived from Dalmatia. There was a rather off-putting number of knives, wrapped and packed in a large wooden chest with iron clasps, along with many short, squat candles, more books, and a long red cloak. They put them in his room.

Peace settled again. Some weeks went by.

Then the fisherman arrived with a parcel nearly as large as a man, wrapped in cloth. 

“Wait till you see this,” he grunted, splashing around in the ankle-deep water outside his boat as he helped Luke wrestle the thing to shore.

They unwrapped the cloth and Thetis recoiled in horror at the life-sized statue of a man in a crown of thorns and bleeding hands gazing sorrowfully up at the sky.

“Why on earth would anyone want such a thing as this??” She was amazed.

“Your sister has a statue of a fat, drunken Dionysus holding grapes, wearing nothing but a fig leaf,” Luke reminded her.

“At least he looks happy!” Thetis snapped back immediately. She was exceedingly discomposed. “These new religions are depressing.”

“Medusa,” Luke said. “Head full of snakes.”

She sighed, acceding the point. “Put it where I cannot see it. Is there anything else?”

“Oh yes,” the fisherman lifted out two crates of wine. “There’s a note.”

“Of course there is,” Thetis muttered crossly, but brightened to see that one crate of wine was for herself and Luke. The other, however, must not be touched as it was from the vineyard of the land of Philip. Well, they both were, but Achilles only wanted one stored in his room as a keepsake. 

Finally, there was a bit of cracked marble that looked as though it had once been part of a pillar, and a rolled up bit of calfskin that turned out to be an extremely faded, very rudimentary map of Syria. 

Despite Thetis’ display of exasperation, Luke felt she rather enjoyed picking about these strange artifacts, watching them be cleaned. She was engrossed, standing in the bedchamber with one long finger to her lips as she looked about and considered how best to display her son’s weird treasures.

“Perhaps the knives could go on the wall,” Luke suggested, happy to see her have something to do that did not involve seashells.

They sorted through the last package and found that Achilles had packed it with several small items wrapped in heavy, woven cloth. A leather wine bag. A silver ring with a blue stone. A necklace with a jewel-embedded cross. A monk’s robe! 

“It is rather entertaining,” Thetis admitted, holding up the robe. “What is that?”

“I think it’s for whipping someone,” Luke said, holding the flogger he’d found wrapped in burlap. “I wonder if he wants us to save the cloth too.”

“Better do,” she said, and so they did.

A week later, Achilles arrived, looking fresh and alert, dressed in rather strange garb, to his mother’s eye, pants and a short tunic of green, with a belt and cloak, and his feet in leather boots. 

He rowed up in his own little boat, past the _Hector,_ which was still anchored nearby. When he came ashore and greeted them, and embraced them, his mother was unaccustomedly eager to show him the display she’d made of his artifacts.

Achilles blinked at his room, which was transformed from the barren cave of a warrior with nothing but a bed and a fire pit. He stood in the middle and gazed about with dazzled eyes, nodding.

“Yes. Yes, this is good. This is what I wanted,” he told her, and gave her another embrace. 

Then they stood apart, both unaccustomed to such affectionate gestures. They went to gather at the fire pit in the garden, and drink the wine from the vineyards of Philip.

“I’ve been thinking,” Achilles said.

“Uh oh.” Luke grinned.

“Can your father see in advance where I’m going next?” Achilles asked his mother.

“I’m certain. Surely.” She said.

“Let us find out.” Her son said decisively. “Let us talk to your father in the morning. Let me try at least to make some arrangements for myself. I’m tired of arriving naked and confused in a strange place.”

Thetis nodded again. “Yes. Yes, that is a good idea. Let’s make this a bit more civilized, shall we?”

Achilles nodded, smiling. He’d lived nearly half a year in a world without Hector, and he’d been busy and engaged, and relatively happy. But it had not taught him that he was done with his Hector. He wasn’t. In fact, he rather felt like this was simply… the end of the beginning.

He turned to stare into the firelight, chalice in his hand, his blue eyes intent. Somewhere, his Hector was waiting for him.


	9. Canua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cannes was not always a film festival town...

The two unemployed soldiers—who would never be called beggars—sat in the graveyard, facing each other, leaning against opposing headstones. The year was 1035. The city, Canua, near the Lerins Islands. The younger of the two beggars—soldiers, that is—Alphonse, was a bit more educated than the other, and felt inclined to share this information again.

“My mother,” he said, a bit drunkenly, “was of a good family.”

“Her father was clergy,” mumbled his companion, Otto, with resignation.

“Her father… was a member of the clergy!” Alphonse explained, expansively.

Otto nodded agreeably. It was early evening, there was a full moon, and fortunately it was a warm night. And they had done well today, begging near the church in the town square. They had a flagon of wine each. Life was not so very bad, as long as you didn’t get the pox.

“By him, my mother was a distant relative…” Alphonse continued.

“Of Conrad,” said Otto.

“Of Conrad!!” His friend corrected him. “King of Germany! King of Italy! King of…”

“Burgundy?” Otto prompted innocently.

“Burgundy, now! But then she was dishonored. By Saracens. They came ashore—“

“Raping and pillaging and defiling—“

“And burning! Don’t forget burning—“ Alphonse charged him.

“Always the burning,” Otto agreed, taking another drink.

“They like to burn things,” Alphonse complained.

“Well, it is amusing,” Otto pointed out. 

“I suppose,” Alphonse sighed. “But my point! My point is that… that means I am distantly related to HIM!” And with that, he pointed behind him, at the mound that covered the megalithic tomb of Lord Hector Alexander Philip, ancient prince of Canua. This bit of family history also implied that Alphonse was part Saracen, too, but he tended to speed over that part.

“He died fighting Saracens,” Otto recited.

“He defended Canua in the 10th century… he defended us all,” Alphonse chanted.

“And then he fell, fell fighting—“ Otto joined in with him, for there was no point in trying to stop Alphonse once he was on this track.

“Fell fighting, and the Saracens swarmed!” Alphonse cried.

“They swarmed!” Otto sang in contralto.

“They swarmed down upon us all. God save Lord Hector.” Alphonse finished.

“God save ‘im.” Otto agreed equably. They drank.

“I have a question,” Otto said after a moment, gazing at the megalith, which had a huge stone before it.

“W’sat?” Alphonse asked, settling back again more comfortably against a tilting gravestone.

“Do you think a naked man would ever try to break into Lord Hector’s tomb?” Otto asked, gazing past his friend.

“…NO! Who would dare? Lord Hector’s a legend in Canua.” Alphonse declared righteously.

Otto nodded, drunkenly watching a naked man with long, flowing blond hair calmly rolling aside the massive stone in front of the megalithic tomb of Lord Hector Alexander Philip.

“He’s got the finest tomb in the whole graveyard!” Alphonse declared. “Paid for and maintained by a Greek king, in gratitude for…”

“Something,” Otto finished, watching the naked man enter the tomb.

“Something,” Alphonse agreed. “You got any more wine?” He leaned forward, and Otto handed him his own flagon. He was feeling pretty generous this evening.

“Who is the Greek king, by the way?” Otto asked.

“Oh, no one remembers. It was a hundred years ago.” Alphonse muttered, taking another drink.

“Damn Saracens,” Otto observed, “they’ve been around a good long time now.”

“A long time!” Alphonse agreed. “A pox on them.”

“But you’re part Saracen, then, if your mother was—“

“My mother was a good woman! Her father was a member of the clergy! That Saracen defiled her!” Alphonse blazed.

Otto nodded, waiting to see if the naked man would come back out of the tomb, or if he was just.. looking for a place to sleep. But how had he moved that stone?

Otto refocused on Alphonse. “He must have liked her. He stuck around for eleven years.”

“Defiling her!” Alphonse said.

“Why did they break up again?” Otto asked. 

“Ah, he started defiling a friend of hers.” Alphonse muttered.

“Pfff. Saracens.” Otto shook his head in disgust. Behind his friend, the blond man emerged, no longer naked. In fact, he was dressed very nicely, in pants tucked into leather boots, a tunic with belt and cloak, a sword at his side, a purse, and a larger satchel carrying who knew what supplies.

“He was a bastard,” Alphonse said moodily. “Fucking Cenk. Never gave her a cent after she kicked him out,”

“And burned all his clothes in the street,” Otto remembered.

“Well, it’s amusing to burn things,” Alphonse grinned suddenly, and they toasted, and drank.

Behind him, the blond man rolled the stone back over the grave and started walking toward them. Otto watched, hoping the fellow wasn’t coming to kill them. He had quite a muscular physique, Otto had noticed, when the fellow first arrived, calmly naked.

The blond warrior approached them with something in his fingers.

“Excuse me,” he said in a heavily accented tongue. “I search for Henri of Arduina.” He glanced at them both, and then focused on Otto, a strange look coming over his face.

Alphonse perked up. “Henri of Arduina? Lord Henri? Oh, he’s a patron of the church, so go to the town center, find the cathedral, and they can show you to the manse, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s got the pox. Dying, probably.” Alphonse said calmly, pointing north.

The blond man looked in the direction Alphonse pointed and noticed a main road, visible by the full moon’s light. He nodded, and turned back to them, squatting down to peer at Otto.

“Eudorus?” He asked softly.

Otto gazed at him stupidly. “Okay.”

The warrior nodded. “Come to the manse if you need employment. Demand Achilles,” he said, and gave Otto a gold pebble.

“Ay, I was the one who told you where to—oh, thank ye kindly.” Alphonse said, fingering his own warm golden pebble.

“Achilles,” Otto breathed, staring down at the golden pebble in his hand. Then he looked up again. “Like the poem?”

The blond man smiled fondly down at him. “Yes. Poem. Forget not.”

“Ey,” Otto said, before the man—Achilles—could walk away. “Was there actually anyone in there?”

Achilles smiled. “No. Shh…” he put a finger to his lips, and then strode away toward the main road.

Alphonse looked between them, confused. “What’s this now?”

Otto shook his head, “Oh nothing. Here. Have another drink. Say, maybe we can sleep indoors tonight. Your lady friend might take us back if…” he gestured toward the gold.

“Why we have to use mine?” Alphonse protested.

“She’s your lady friend, I thought you’d want to,” Otto said, giving him a shaming look.

Alphonse sighed. “Alright, let’s go see if Marina’s forgiven me.” They lurched to their feet and staggered out of the graveyard. Otto gave a last look at the empty tomb of the fictional legend, Lord Hector Alexander Philip. It was a pity. That was a nice bit of local lore.


	10. Pox

Achilles stepped into the dark cathedral, guided only by the candles burning at the front, near the altar.

“Excuse me. I search for Lord Henri. To help with Pox.” Achilles said to the first priest who turned to him.

“I beg your pardon?” The clergyman regarded him suspiciously.

Achilles faced the cross and genuflected—having at least picked up from Philip and Hermenegild the basics. This Jesus fellow was still around! Achilles was rather amazed.

“Lord Henri? Pox? I can help.” Achilles articulated with difficulty. This particular devolution of Latin was very liquid. He put a gold pebble in the collection plate and watched the priest’s eyes follow the movement and widen. Then the priest assessed the smoothness of the blond hair, the stitching on his cloak, and the silver gleam of the handle of his sword, and the dagger in his belt, and finally the fine heavy leather of his boots.

“Accompany me,” the priest said with sudden graciousness.

Achilles had been prepared for a hike, but the priest summoned two litters, one apparently for Achilles, with candles inside. To the carriers, he uttered a steam of fluid patois from which Achilles could distinguish only _Henri… donor… generous… visit… respects._ Good enough. 

They traveled through the night for a bit, and before Achilles could become too impatient, he found himself disembarking before a large stone manse with a tower in the center of it that had a dangerously sharp peak, just discernable against the full moon. The manse was dark, but for one room on the second floor, where candles gleamed in the glass windows. 

Achilles accompanied the priest to the heavy wooden door and waited. A man-servant, who was tall, thin, and pale, answered the summons of the bell, and spoke in the same mellifluous tongue. They were waved into the dark entry, and Achilles followed the black-clad servant through the stone floored rooms, a maze of murky shadows only barely pushed back by the occasional candle. They mounted a wide set of stairs, and the servant brought him to a door.

Hereupon, the servant drew a cloth from a pocket upon his breast and covered his face with it. His gesture to Achilles seemed to suggest that he should do the same.

Achilles looked quizzically at the servant, and then at the priest, who had also produced a square of linen. He had no squares of linen upon his person and, uneasily, jerked his head to indicate that he’d like to enter _without_ a square of linen upon his face, thank you very much. 

The servant and the priest looked at each other as if to say, _Well, we did warn him._

Achilles entered the room and absorbed three things very quickly. 

One, there was a fireplace in the room with a fire blazing, candles burning all about and sheets and pots strewn rather like when Zoe was giving birth, except the stains on them were yellow rather than bloody.

Two, the room stunk.

Three, there was an unrecognizable monster in the bed moaning with misery and covered with oozing, pustulant blisters, so thick they made the poor creature barely recognizable as human, and so close together, one would be hard pressed to lay a finger between them. Horrified, Achilles came forward, staring at the lumpy monster in the bed. Other than the dark curls, there was little to recognize. 

An older, heavy-set woman hovered near the bed, apparently a nurse or nun or housekeeper… he didn’t know. He waved her out of the way, and she backed away willingly, gazing at this beautiful golden man who was getting far too close to Lord Henri for his own safety. By his perfect skin, she surmised he’d never had the pox. _He’ll be sorry in a week or two,_ she thought, watching him sit on the side of the bed to regard the barely-conscious Lord Henri with deep concern. Her own skin was pitted by her bout with the pox which had, fortunately for her, inoculated her as a child too young to remember the misery. But this fellow! She looked over at the priest and the major-domo, who stayed safely by the door.

Achilles, meanwhile, stared down at the suffering man on the bed. His first thought was that the sea-god really should have sent him a week earlier, but he supposed it wasn’t an exact art. His second thought was… he couldn’t actually say for sure if this was Hector! He was so disfigured!

But then Achilles decided that even if it wasn’t Hector, the poor fellow deserved some relief. Searching for a place to put his fingers that wouldn’t sink them into an open blister—for even mighty Achilles was squeamish around oozing sores—he put his hands gently on the torso of the man in the bed. The patient turned his head this way and that and murmured something. 

“Launzhe.. ooeh mon aunzhe… jey un aunzhe… va venir…”

Achilles closed his eyes and concentrated. _Heal… heal… heal…_

He opened his eyes and looked. It seemed as though the blisters were less bulging. The patient grew quiet and sighed. Achilles looked at the woman.

“Open windows,” he said.

She looked as though he’d recommended she pour boiling water on the patient.

“Open windows!” He repeated sternly.

She looked toward the doorway at the two men, who shrugged. She opened the windows and Achilles breathed a bit easier when a bit of clear night air came in and dissipated some of the putrid smell in the room.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on healing again, opening them periodically to check the progress of the disfiguring lumps. They were definitely flattening and drying. He looked at the patient’s face, and saw the large, dark eyes opened and fastened on him. Yes, it was his Hector, underneath all the pustulant horror of this hideous malady.

“Setwah!” Henri murmured, gazing dazedly up at him. “Setwah! Enfan!”

Achilles smiled down at him, not understanding him at all, but it didn’t matter. “I am here,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again, bidding the disease to retreat yet more. After a bit, he turned to the woman.

“Bath,” Achilles stated, pointing at the large tin tub he saw in the corner of the room. “Warm bath. Go.” He wished he had the gong. “Go! Make warm bath!” His Hector was … not clean. Did these people not know how to care for the sick? The sheets were littered with the hardened yellow patches that had oozed from his skin.

Achilles gave a shudder. Disease, like childbirth, distressed him. He’d take a good old-fashioned amputation by sword any day. It was cleaner.

While the woman and another servant scampered about bringing pails of water, and adding hot water from the cauldron over the fireplace, Achilles continued his work on Lord Henri, who was still weak and dazed.

 _Heal, heal, heal,_ he invoked, and then looked about for water to give his Hector to drink. There was no water but that they drew for the bath. Really, what swamp had he landed in that they didn’t understand the basic elements of a comfortable life?!

“Water? To drink?” He asked. They brought him two mugs of water, which he sniffed suspiciously and then tossed out the window. He scooped some of the boiling water from the cauldron and poured it from one mug to the other until it was cool enough to drink, and then brought it to his Hector, who struggled up eagerly and gulped it down.

Achilles was simmering at the incompetence of the world.

When the bath was finally ready, he shooed everyone out of the room, much as he’d shooed the aunts of Zoe. Then he helped his Hector from the bed, stripped off the filthy white sheets he’d been entangled in, and lowered him into the tub. His Hector groaned with pleasure and sank into the water. 

Achilles ripped all the sheets and blankets from the bed and took them to the door. When he opened it and threw them into the passageway, the priest and major-domo who hovered there backed away from them as if they were full of snakes. The woman just looked at him.

“Clean or burn, I care not. Bring new sheets.” He instructed. 

The woman gathered them up with a scowl. The men dove out of her way as she carted them off.

“Bring new sheets!” Achilles articulated directly at the major-domo, who still held the cloth over his face.

“I’ll leave you now,” the priest managed, and catching a whiff of the smell when he removed the cloth, replaced it quickly, bowed, and departed.

Achilles looked after him for a moment. Well, he’d served his purpose. The warrior returned to care for his Hector, who was weakly splashing water over his pitted shoulders. 

“Soap?” Achilles asked, and his Hector peered wearily up at him from under his wet curls.

Achilles made a lathering motion with his hands, and Lord Henri pointed to a bowl on a shelf in a dark corner.

“Lavon.”

Achilles found it and brought it, kneeling to gently apply it to his beloved’s pocked back, and lathered his hands to rub his scalp as well. He bathed his Hector in silence, broken only by the occasional murmur to move this way or that, and though they didn’t speak the same language, it wasn’t difficult for his Lordship to understand the directions.

Achilles poured warm water over his beloved’s curls, noting with a pang that his hair was short in back and curled at his nape, like Victor’s had. 

Periodically, Achilles stopped to pour healing into his love. With each wave of his attentions, Lord Henri seemed more comfortable and peaceful, and his skin grew smoother and less monstrous. Eventually, Achilles looked at him with satisfaction. He looked spotty, but he looked like Hector.

When the woman returned with the sheets, she marched to the bed without looking much at them, and made the bed up before turning to see if his Lordship needed help rising from the tub. 

“Mon Dieu!” She gasped, as he looked up at her.

Achilles aided him to rise and wrapped a towel modestly about him. The woman was no help at all, staggering back and staring at him in shock.

“Jetaydi kejavay unaunzhe,” Lord Henri told her, with a little smile.

“Seta sausi-ey!” She whispered back, casting frightened looks at Achilles. 

Lord Henri looked disturbed. “No, no, Matilde, semon aunzhe!”

Achilles looked at the woman. “You understand him?”

She stared at him suspiciously.

Irritated, he helped his Hector back to the bed, patted him dry, and let him crawl naked back into the clean sheets. The patient settled back and gazed up at him.

“Jetandu si longtah potevwah,” Henri murmured, his voice husky.

Achilles gazed at him lovingly, and then put a hand to his forehead. “Sleep,” he said, and his Hector sank back and slept.

For a moment, Achilles considered that his Hector didn’t understand the word “sleep,” in Greek—which he’d automatically reverted to—yet he obeyed. Clearly, the word was not a command for the subject to follow, but merely an expression of his own will. After all, did he say “gold” to the pebble when he pinched it? No. 

Achilles thought of all the times he’d said “sleep” and realized with a smile that he only said it because that’s how his mother did it. He shook his head, feeling a bit foolish. Then he turned back to the woman. Matilde.

“How do you understand Lord Henri?”

“I’ve known him since he was a child!” Matilde said stoutly. 

“What did he tell me?” Achilles asked.

She looked uneasily at the sleeping man in the bed, and then back to the mysterious gentleman with the long blond hair.

“He said he has waited a long time to see you,” she finally said.

Achilles swallowed, pleased, and then went to scoop more water out of the cauldron with the mugs. He sat them on the table by the bed. In the morning, they’d be cool enough to drink. Then he turned and sat on the bed again.

“You will get sick,” she warned him.

“I think not,” he murmured, gazing down at his Hector. “You may go now.”

There was a pause, and then he heard the rustling of her skirts as she left, and the door closed behind her. 

After a moment, Achilles removed his boots and belt, laid all his gear aside, and stretched out on the bed next to his Hector. Bringing one hand up to the sleeping face, he smoothed his fingers over it. _Heal… heal…_ he did that until he was sleepy enough himself to doze off.


	11. Henri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you speak French, this may be fun for you. If you don't... I apologize in advance.

Achilles awoke in the morning when the bed moved slightly. He opened his eyes to see his Lordship reaching for a mug of water and gulping it down happily. He looked much better. His skin was pitted, but it looked as though he’d had the pox a month ago and was now quite recovered.

Henri finished his water and picked up the other one, and offered it to Achilles in a friendly fashion. Pleased, Achilles took it and drank.

Henri settled back into the bed and gazed at Achilles with affection and gratitude.

“Savey ku-unjoo tu vendrey,” he murmured. “Damey rev jetiverai, mem kanjetey zhun. Toojor tavay lecheveh blon—“ he reached up to stroke Achilles’ hair. “—siboh. Eh lezew blu.”

Achilles lay listening, mouth slightly open in wonder at his Hector quietly chatting away in this strange variant. It was barely recognizable. He picked up words like _knew- you- come…_ but that was it. How it was that the servant Matilde understood him, Achilles could not comprehend. Perhaps she was a local here, but he had been raised elsewhere, and she had gone with him, and returned with him. That might make sense. A wealthy Christian family might send their child away from the land of Saracens to grow up.

“Eirswah ilzondi kehjemorey,” Henry confided, eyes dark and very direct. “May jesavay ke netaypavrey. Jesayke monaunzhe viendrey.”

Achilles just listened, picking up what words he could. _Die-no, angel-come._ A slow smile grew on his lips… there was something charming about this language, even if he couldn’t understand it.

“Et venerunt ad te,” He said in Latin. _I came for you._

Henri’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and his lips moved as he repeated the words silently to himself. Then his smile grew too.

“Ah… venisti ad me,” He answered stiltedly. _You came for me._

Achilles’ grin grew to near silly level. He nodded. For a long moment, the two of them simply lay in the bed smiling at one another. The sun came in the windows now, and finally Achilles turned his attention to the marks on his beloved’s skin.

Taking one arm in his hands, he rubbed a single spot, concentrating on it. When he lifted his fingers, it was as smooth and unmarked as if it had never suffered. Henri’s eyes widened.

“Modieu kesetun mirak!” 

Achilles smiled, catching the root of the word _miracle._ Without comment, he moved to the next spot and tenderly caressed it away. They both lay, watching the tanned fingers move from spot to spot on his arm, slowly clearing a widening patch of smooth perfection. 

“Fay moh visazh… puh fair moh visazh?” Henri asked hopefully.

Achilles looked up at him questioningly. Henri gestured to his face.

Gladly, his angel caressed his face, smoothing it with close attention. Henri closed his eyes, seeming to bask in it.

“Komjetem,” Henri murmured quietly. “Tootmavi … to-etey damayrev eh jesavay unjoo nooserioh zonsomble.”

Achilles chuckled slightly, “I wish I knew what you were saying,” he whispered back.

Henri opened his dark eyes again and just gazed at him. The handle of the door turned, and Achilles released his beloved’s face and turned, sitting up in the bed. When the door opened, Matilde entered carrying a tray. She looked a bit taken aback to see how close they were in the bed.

“You will sicken,” she warned Achilles again, and then said something to Henri in his own language. 

He sat up immediately, pulling the sheets up around him and eying the tray with interest. Achilles listened quietly as they exchanged several remarks, and Matilde drew closer, and put her hand to his face carefully. She exclaimed over his remarkable healing, and he smiled at her. 

To Achilles’ observation, she was very likely his nanny when Henri was a boy. She had that sort of familiarity with him, and was affectionate, although not to an extreme.

“Where are the parents of Henri?” Achilles asked, watching her set the tray on his Lordship’s lap. It seemed to consist of eggs and some sort of bread.

“Died years ago. Who are you? Henri seems to know but gives no name.” She asked bluntly, offering him a trencher of eggs as well.

Achilles smiled. “I’m his angel,” he said amusedly, absently refusing the food. He hadn’t really felt hunger since he left his mother’s island this last time.

Matilde gave him a look. “Angel has name?”

“Achilles. But I can’t understand what language he speaks.”

“He grew among Franks,” she shrugged, and seemed to feel that was explanation enough.

Henri, meanwhile, was unconcernedly eating his food as his angel and his nanny conversed. When he finished, he set the trencher aside and launched into a rapid patter of husky mellifluity, and Achilles once again sat with his lips parted in rapture at the charming babble.

“Maytenah kejevay bieh emonaunzhe ehvenu nozalon commencey la constructioh delafortres. Leyzha zeesee sonmokey demwa may maytenah ivovwah! Ileyesee pomedey.” Henri said firmly.

Matilde nodded in a resigned manner. “I suppose,” she said, and gave his shoulder a pat. She turned to stoke up the fire, leaving Achilles looking between them. Henri gave him another loving look, clearly pleased.

“He wants to build strength?” Achilles guessed uncertainly.

“No,” Matilde said, coming back to gather up the remains of the breakfast. “He wants to build a fortress to protect the islands and Canua from invaders. It’s what he came back to do. The men here have laughed at him and said it cannot be done, but now that you are here, it will be done. You are here to help him build it.”

Achilles’ smile wavered, and then turned into a helpless laugh. Of course his Hector wanted to build a fortress! He turned to see Henri’s complacent gaze had vanished, replaced by a stricken look—oh, he should not have laughed, Achilles realized. He sobered instantly.

“Yes, yes,” he took Henri’s hand in his. “Fortress. Castle. We build.”

“Iladeewee,” Matilde reassured Henri, who relaxed again. Then, with a last look at the both of them, she left, shaking her head.


	12. The Site

Achilles trudged behind Henri, who was charging up a grassy hill near the shore to a spot from whence he could see the larger of the two islands. He gazed around, and then turned to Achilles, letting spill a barrage of information. It was an overcast morning, for which the warrior was rather thankful. Henri had taken him on quite a hike up the beach, apparently intent upon showing him the site where he planned to build his fortress.

“Le-all principa serasee avec untor attashey eesee-eh lacorla-avec le mur, kifay letoo-ehlaport alarriey,” Henri said sternly, gesturing toward a few spots in the grass. He eyed his angel expectantly. 

Achilles nodded seriously, blue eyes narrowed, having understood the words _tower, wall,_ and _gate,_ and nothing else.

“Donk, jeponse kenoo devrioh commonsay par la tour—eesee!” Henri told him.

Achilles nodded again.

“Eesee!” Henri repeated, pointing. “La tour va eesee!”

Achilles blinked. _The tower goes here,_ he realized, pleased with himself. Then he looked at the actual site. They would need to mark the area off, he decided. 

Just as he was standing there, Henri looked past him.

“Esske tukonay seygar?”

Achilles turned to see Otto and Alphonse trudging up the hill behind them. The warrior was thrilled to see those bright blue eyes turning toward him with a sort of puzzled trust— _ah, Eudorus. May your wheel ever turn with mine,_ he thought, and went to him, putting his hands on the startled fellow’s shoulders.

“You found me,” he said, pleased, and Otto rather beamed at him.

“Achilles. You said… employment?” He looked hopeful.

“Yes indeed,” Achilles responded heartily. “We build a fortress. Right here. And there’s enough work for any fellows you know who need it. I pay in gold.”

“Okay,” his Eudorus said, turning his vivid eyes to Henri. “Say, I thought you said he was dying of the pox,” he added, looking over at Alphonse, who was staring at Lord Henri in a most perplexed manner.

“That’s what I heard. Marina sells baked goods to their major-domo. She said—“

Henri came to them, his dark eyes looking them up and down as if assessing their strength. Then he nodded and launched into another string of instruction. 

“Nosavoh beswah depikay efaceesel poh delimitey lazon, ehpwee deypel. Sivoozaveh layga zenkwir, apporteyley, isivoozavey deyzami kiohnbezwah detravi, ameneley.”

He turned to Achilles, “Ilfoh parley ohmah-soh. Jeretornrey plutar.”

Otto and Alphonse nodded as if that made perfect sense. With that, Henri left Achilles with the two men and strode away.

“Do you wait here?” Otto asked.

Achilles stared at him. “What?”

“While we get the stakes and rope and shovels?”

Achilles stared harder. “You understood him?”

Otto and Alphonse looked at each other. “Mostly, yes,” Otto said modestly. “Frankish is odd, but you accustom yourself. Wait here, we’ll be back in an hour. We’ll bring whomever we can.”

“Where did Lord Henri go?” Achilles asked, amazed.

Alphonse snorted. “To talk to the stone mason!” As if that had been obvious.

Achilles looked at him, thinking how easy it would be to pick him up and throw him from _eesee_ to _la._ Then he sighed, and went to find a comfortable place to wait. Apparently, they were building a tower. Right here, right now. His Hector was clearly very serious about it.

By afternoon, Achilles and Henri were watching as eight men dug out a square for laying a foundation of flat stone to begin the floor of the tower. A wagon had already trundled up midway through the afternoon to deliver the first load of stone; apparently preparations had been underway before Henri was stricken with the pox. 

They’d been working several hours when Matilde appeared with the major-domo of Lord Henri’s manse, carrying a large basket to feed the crew. Achilles reached into his bag and drew out eight pebbles of gold, offering them to his Hector, and gestured toward the men.

Henri stared at the gold in his hand as if astounded, and then let loose a stream of verbiage at Achilles that sounded very much like a scolding. Matilde came over.

“Oh my, yes, is far too much.” She commented. “If you pay them that today, you’ll never see them again. They’ll be retired. Come, we’ll go into town, buy coins. Gosse knows where.”

Achilles looked at Henri, who was leaning against the pile of cut stone that had been delivered. His prince had plucked a thin reed and put it in his mouth, chewing on it as he watched the men work. His arms were folded over his chest, and his dark curls were falling onto his forehead and stirring slightly in the breeze. His attentive gaze on the work, the folded arms, were very Xander. But when he turned and looked at Achilles, dark eyes twinkling with affection and amusement, there was Karan. Together again, it was his Hector.

“Allay, mon ange,” he murmured.

Achilles felt a little shiver go through him. There was something about his Hector speaking this Frankish language that was terribly appealing. But it was disconcerting that everyone could understand Henri except his angel. Obediently, Achilles turned and followed Matilde and the major-domo—Gosse, Matilde called him—to the horse and wagon. The servants drove, and Achilles rode in the back of the wagon, leaning against the side. Off they went to town to see the money-changer.


	13. Inventions

The shop of the money-changer was on a cobbled side-street that reminded Achilles of parts of Gades. The trees were large and shady, but the shop was dark and crowded. Apparently the money-changer also sold odds and ends. Much of it looked like the sort of abandoned bits of defunct estates that had ended up in the library of the villa of Hermenegild. The money-changer himself was in the back, and they had to ring the bell repeatedly to get him to come forth.

When he did, Matilde gave a bit of a shiver, and went outside to wait in the wagon. Achilles looked after her, puzzled. He didn’t see anything terribly off-putting about the man. He was middle-aged but had the aura of a much older man. He was dressed in black, with a strange little cap on his head, and a very long beard. His eyes, small and dark, were downcast. There was something rather familiar about his face, but Achilles couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

He glanced up once at Achilles and Gosse, noting that Matilde had retreated to the street, and one corner of his mouth crooked up a bit cynically. But he was polite, and weighed the gold pebbles on his scales. Then he turned to a strange device, that had a wooden frame. Within the frame were wooden sticks, and on the sticks were smooth black stones with holes in the middle. Achilles watched in fascination as the money-changer flicked the stones from one side to the other on the first, and then the second, and third stick.

“What is that?” He finally asked.

The money-changer glanced at him. “A coulba,” he answered, with a puzzled look, as if anyone should know this. 

“What does it mean?” Achilles asked.

The fellow stared at him as if he felt he was being played with. “I’m just calculating how much your gold is worth.” He returned his attentions to his device, and Achilles leaned forward intently, his eyes following every move.

The money-changer sighed. “I’m not cheating you.”

“But… what does it do?” Achilles asked again.

“It doesn’t do anything, it’s just counting.”

Achilles stared at him.

“Look, this bead is 50, this is 5, this is one, so if I put one of these, two of these, and three of these, is 63. But then I add this pebble, and it’s weighed at 12, so I put one of these and five of these, and is now 75.”

Achilles had not been so hypnotized since the days of the gong. He pointed to the next stick. “How much are these?”

“Those are a hundred; you do not have that much gold.”

Achilles straightened up and looked at the fellow, into his tired eyes. “Do you have another of these? That I can buy?”

The money-changer blinked at him. “Yes. I suppose. Let me look. I’m… wait, let me get your coins.”

He disappeared for a bit while the warrior poked about the shop. It was interesting, but he saw nothing that took his attention like the coulba.

When the money-changer returned, he had coins, and another coulba, dusty and a bit smaller. “You like this one? I used it to train my son. I was saving it for when he had a son, but…”

“But what?” Achilles asked. The money-changer seemed to have a difficult time looking up now.

“He’s ill.” The man said shortly. 

Achilles took his coins, letting the man hold back some to pay for the counting device. The warrior took the rather wonderful little invention and put it in the large satchel he had over his shoulder. Then he dumped the coins in his purse and hesitated.

“Is it the pox?” He asked.

“You won’t get it, he hasn’t touched that in years,” the fellow said, eyes distant and sad.

“Is he here?” Achilles asked, having noted that the shop was only the first floor of the building. It wasn’t uncommon for shopkeepers to live overhead, or deep in the back of the store.

“You won’t get it,” the man reassured him again, impatiently.

“Can I see him?” Achilles asked.

Gosse tapped his shoulder urgently, shaking his head. Achilles looked at him. “Wait outside.” He turned back to the money-changer. “Let me see him. Sometimes I can help.”

“If you want to pray to Jesus for him, you can save your breath.” The money-changer told him, finally looking directly at him.

“Why would I want to do that?” Achilles was puzzled.

“Christians always want—never mind.” The man looked utterly world weary, and Achilles found himself wanting very much to help him. There was definitely something about the man he recognized, but he didn’t know from where. His hair was long and curly, and streaked in grey, as was his beard. But the eyes, the nose. There was something that stirred in his memory, very faintly… this was someone who he’d once had at least a… lack of animosity for.

“Let me see him,” Achilles said.

The money-changer looked at the perfect golden skin of the warrior’s face. “You’ve never had the pox, it’s not a good idea.”

“I’ve already been exposed to it, last night. If I’m going to get it, it’s already on its way,” Achilles said.

The fellow stroked his long beard for a moment, and looking at his delicate hand and slender wrist, the warrior was struck again by the feeling that this was someone, like Eudorus, whose wheel was turning along with his Hector’s.

“Very well,” he finally said. “Come.”

He led Achilles through the shop to the back, and then up wooden stairs to a series of rooms above, simply furnished, with walls of smooth clay. In a room with sunshine coming through the window was a familiar sight: a young man in a bed with his skin nearly boiling off him. His breathing was deep yet fast, and Achilles could see why his father was giving up hope. He was not even conscious.

Achilles sat down at the edge of the bed and looked for somewhere on the young man’s shoulders to put his fingers. When he placed them, he could feel the fever radiating off the skin. Closing his eyes, he concentrated.

The room was silent as the money-changer watched, eyes hooded and not hopeful, but patient. If this strange blond man thought his prayers would help, well, Isaac was willing to let him. But his boy had taken a turn that morning and he was dull with sorrow and weeks of struggle, trying to nurse him alone while running the shop. His wife had died years ago. Nahum was all he had.

He watched as the fellow placed his fingers gently on Nahum’s pustulant shoulders and held them there. Then he moved them slightly, lifted his head, opened his eyes, and then closed them again, bowed his head again, concentrated again. Whatever he was doing, it was at least quiet.

Then Isaac took a step forward, staring. It looked suddenly as if there was some improvement. Nahum’s breathing seemed slower, more normal. The blisters seemed less bulging, less as if they were about to pop. Achilles moved his fingers again and concentrated some more. Definitely, there was improvement.

After a bit longer, Achilles leaned back, watching the young man on the bed sigh and open his eyes for a moment.

“I think he needs water. Give him water to drink often,” Achilles recommended, looking up at the money-changer. “Do you have a place where I can wash my hands?”

Isaac led him to another room to wash his hands, and left him for a moment to bring water to his son. When he returned, he was more willing to look Achilles in the eye. “Who are you?”

Achilles smiled. “I was wondering the same thing about you.” He dried his hands and turned to the door. “I’ll see myself out. But when I can, I’ll come back and check on you both.”

As he made his way through the shop and out to the street again, his mind tugged at the image of the money-changer. Where had he seen those dark eyes, that nose, those delicate hands? He shook his head, hoping it would come to him later. Perhaps when one is very old, everyone looks rather like someone else.

Matilde was waiting for him with as stern eye. “Be careful of Jews,” she said bluntly.

“Why is that?” He asked.

“They aren’t Christian,” she explained.

Achilles smiled. “Then why did we go to him?”

“Christians don’t change money, only Jews change money.” 

“But if it’s wrong, surely we shouldn’t go to them.” Achilles said.

“It’s not wrong to have it done, it’s only wrong to do it,” She said, as if that made perfect sense. “Jesus threw the money-changers out of the temple, so it’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s only wrong to do it in the temple,” Achilles answered and vaulted into the back of the wagon, bored with the conversation. 

Matilde gave a huff, and they settled into the wagon to drive back to the site of their budding castle. Matilde and Goss had plenty to say to one another in low voices, but Achilles sat in the rattling wagon as it rumbled over the cobbled streets, and searched his memory, concentrating on the money-changer. Who did he look like? Why was it only the eyes and nose and hands? He mulled over it.

When they had left town, made their way to the shore, and then up onto the grassy plateau where the work was taking place, it was sunset. Several stones of the tower floor were already laid, and the men were sitting about, gloves in their laps, ready to be paid for the day’s work.

Achilles came to his Hector, who was sitting on the diminished pile of flat stones, surveying the groundwork of his project with satisfaction.

“Here,” the warrior dumped the coins into his hands, and Henri gave him an amused glance and picked out eight coins of medium size, and put the rest back in the bag and turned to his crew.

“Dakor, vozepret? Vozavey bien travaye. Sivuvuley pludetravai demah, sesera eesee.”

Achilles listened closely, trying to pick out what he could. _You-good-you-want-more-here._

Matilde gestured to a cask in the wagon that Achilles had not noticed, as it was tucked up under the seat and partially covered with a wadded pile of canvas. She spoke quietly to Henri in his own tongue, and he nodded approval. He caught the word _drink_ and saw the men perk up. 

Gosse drew a few rough cups from the wadded canvas and the men gathered around the wagon for their drink. When they’d taken their coins, swigged back a drink of whatever it was, and wiped their mouths cheerfully, they bade their goodnights to Lord Henri and left on foot, heading into town to spend their coins.

Henri went to the wagon and poured two more drinks, bringing one back to Achilles.

“Ilfo portay untost: ala commencement dela protectioh du Canua!” He told his angel, his dark eyes deep and happy.

Achilles recognized a toast when he heard one, and they touched cups.

“To the Canua Keep!” Achilles pronounced. Then he took a good swig, expecting wine… and nearly spat the vile stuff back into the cup. What was this?? He stared at the cup in his hand. It tasted like … he couldn’t even think of a description! Perhaps the water one dumped out when the laundry was done, mixed with the yeast one used to make bread? And a little horse piss? Horrible, horrible!

“What is this?” He demanded, eyes watering.

Henri finished his drink and looked askance him. “Biere.”

Achilles handed it back to him with a look. Henri took it and chugged it down as well. His angel watched him with a shiver of disapprobation. Some of mankind’s more recent inventions were not as wonderful as gongs and coulbas. Wine had never been improved upon, and if this was meant to be a replacement, Achilles shuddered for the future.

“Do people not drink wine anymore?” He asked in dread. At Henri’s puzzled look, he clarified. “Vinum?”

His Hector smiled indulgently at him. “Ahwee. Jay duvah sheymwa,” he reassured him, and then leaned forward and enunciated carefully: “Vinum! Domo!”

“Bene!” Achilles enunciated back.

Henri stroked his angel’s arm affectionately, and then squeezed it. Then, with a jerk of his head, he indicated that they might sit in the back of the wagon and let Matilde and Gosse drive them home. It wasn’t the most dignified conveyance for his Lordship, but Henri didn’t seem to mind. Achilles settled in the back with him, and Matilde looked at them as if they were two small boys she was tasked with minding. Then she perched herself next to Gosse and gave him a prod of her elbow, and they rode back to the manse in the approaching dusk.


	14. Dinner

Dinner was reminiscent of his days in the villa of Gades, for there was something dark and quiet about the manse. It came to Achilles that for the size of the place, it was oddly unpopulated. It seemed that Henri, Matilde, and Gosse were the only inhabitants. Upon exploring a bit while they waited for dinner to be prepared, Achilles found that most of the rooms were closed up, and sheets covered the furniture.

“Do you live here alone?” He asked while the two of them dined at the long, empty table, but his variant of Latin, learned from his years with Hermenegild, was essentially archaic Spanish, and Henri’s native tongue was essentially northern French. The servants seemed able to operate in the middle and understand them both, but without middlemen, Achilles and Henri were having difficulty. Moreover, Henri’s grasp of Latin, from his education as a gentleman, was far more rudimentary than Philip’s or Hermenegild’s had been. 

It was trying for Achilles. The years he’d spent with Xander and Karan had been a true respite, and to be able to speak Greek to his Hectors had facilitated their sense of closeness in a way he’d not experienced before. Now it seemed he’d best not expect to experience it again any time soon.

“Hic solus es?” Achilles tried again.

“Solus… solus… ah, seul. No, jay Matilde eh Gosse!” Henri replied, nodding toward the kitchen. “Eh ohsee Mark dalastab.”

“Familia?”

“Mort.”

“Omni? Todos?”

“Omni, wee, toot.”

Achilles sighed. This was slow going. “Cur praesidium?”

Blank stare.

“Por que construer… fortress?”

“Pokua? Les Sarrasah zontuey mayparau!” Henri looked as if this was something Achilles should have known.

 _Sarrasah…_ Saracens, Achilles was sure. And he thought he caught the word for _parents._ And the parents were dead. He nodded and subsided into silence. Henri began speaking, and Achilles let the sound flow past his ears, deciding that it didn’t particularly matter if he understand. His prince sounded quite charming, and he picked up the occasional word as he listened: _young-attack-years-now-help…_ it was enough.

When they finished, Henri pushed the plate aside and put his elbows on the table, gazing at Achilles with his head tilted in that way Karan had always had. And Victor, he remembered Victor doing it. Sometimes Hermenegild. Rarely Philip or Xander. He thought of the device he’d bought from the money-changer, and imagined his Hector’s spirit as one of the slender wooden rods, and each incarnation as a stone upon that rod that might be slid to the right, or the left, or hover in the middle.

While Achilles was musing, Henri’s voice had lowered to a more intimate tone, and Achilles sensed that now, he was talking about the two of them. He tuned in again, concentrating on picking up words he could recognize from either Latin or the varying versions of it he’d learned over the years. _Visions. You. Young. Angel. Now. Here. Luck. Miracle—_

Achilles wanted to see his beloved’s face better, and reached out to an unlit candle near him, lighting it with a pinch unthinkingly. There was a pause in Henri’s speech, and then he blinked, smiled, and continued on. _Fate._

 _Bed,_ thought Achilles, wanting to lie on top of Henri and listen to him murmur any nonsense at all in this language. “Dormient?” He tried.

Henri rose from the table, giving him a long look. Then he turned and called for Matilde. He rattled off something to her, and then turned and gave Achilles a nod, as if to bid him goodnight. Then without a word, he left the dining room with a candle and vanished in the direction of his chamber.

Achilles watched him go with sinking disappointment. Then he stood and followed Matilde, who escorted him to a guest bedroom in the same general vicinity as Henri’s. It was prepared and ready for him, with water for bathing, and a fire in the fireplace. 

Before she left, Matilde turned to him. “He used to say he had an angel, but I thought it was just boyish talk. When his parents were killed, he said it no more. But now you are here.”

Achilles did not know what to say. “I wish I could have come sooner,” was all he could think of.

Matilde nodded thoughtfully, bade him goodnight and left, closing the door behind her. 

Achilles removed his belt and dagger, stripped off his clothes and bathed, and then got into the bed. Perhaps he should leave a few candles burning, just in case Henri decided to visit in the night. He settled back on the pillows and gazed into the fireplace, ruminating. Now that he thought of it, depending upon the sea-god to bring him to his Hector at the right time seemed increasingly like an unreliable method. What the sea god considered important and what Achilles considered important were not always the same. 

Moreover, Nereus didn’t seem to have the same concept of time that Achilles did. The very word “years” would mean little to him. But Achilles had relied on the sea-god because otherwise… he’d simply have to wait on his mother’s island for decades between Hectors. That would be unbearable. Unless his mother could sink him into sleep, and was that what he wanted? He didn’t know.

Suddenly, all the candles in his room flickered at the same time. He turned to see the door open quietly, and Henri, still dressed, slip in holding a candle of his own.

“Tu dormies?” Henri whispered.

“No,” Achilles whispered back, gladness welling up in his chest. He moved to the side of the bed furthest from the fireplace, and flicked back the covers, gesturing invitingly to the empty side of his bed.

Henri drew close, putting his candle down carefully, and drew off his shirt. He gave Achilles a slightly worried, inquiring look, and held out his arms, gesturing to the one clear place that his angel had created amongst the blemishes left by the pox.

Achilles nodded, and Henri climbed into the bed. Achilles kept the sheet bunched between them, not wanting to startle Henri with Fully Naked Angel just yet, and settled in close beside him, taking his arm in hand and devoting himself to rubbing out the scars one by one. Henri lay quietly, watching his skin slowly transform to smoothness. The fire crackled peacefully. 

At one point, Henri lifted his other hand and brought it to his angel’s head. Achilles looked up to find Henri gazing at his blond hair, running his fingers through it slowly, just as… all his Hectors had done, really. It was one of the few constants, and may have simply been something any lover would do when their beloved had beautiful hair, but it always comforted Achilles. It at least helped him feel some continuity. He blinked lovingly at his Hector, eyes wandering over that familiar face, the wide cheekbones, the long, deep-set eyes. 

Suddenly, Achilles found himself at the mercy of opposing impulses. He wanted to kiss Hector, and roll over on top of him, and pin his arms down and ravish his neck and… all the things. All the luscious things they’d ever done together. But at the same time, he hesitated, remembering the delicious moments of tension before that first time with each of them, and how each was just a little different. Proud Hector, tormented Philip, fascinated Victor, defiant Hermenegild, adoring Karan, masterful Xander… they were all the same man in different moods, different aspects. How would Henri be? Achilles found that he wanted to draw it out, and wait, and get to know this new Hector first.

He lifted his hand to Henri’s face, traced his fingers over it lovingly, and then gently placed his hand on that square forehead. He thought _sleep,_ but he thought it very softly, wanting it to feel natural, and not sudden.

Henri blinked several times, and his lips parted as if he would speak, but then his head sank back and he slept.

Satisfied, Achilles returned his attentions to Henri’s left arm. He worked into the night, eradicating every single mark by the light of the fire. Then he moved to his beloved’s neck and throat, and concentrated with the same single-mindedness that his mother paid to her seashells. Achilles had no idea how like Thetis he was sometimes, and would have been a bit put out had anyone been there to point it out. 

When he finally drifted off himself, his fingers on his love’s chest, Henri’s skin was like a complicated coastline being slowly exposed by receding waters. Achilles was content to leave it undone. It rather guaranteed that Henri would come to him tomorrow night, didn’t it?


	15. Stones

In the morning, Achilles awoke alone. He dressed, taking the dagger but leaving the sword, and came down to the dining hall, and Matilde informed him that his Lordship would be down shortly, and inquired as to how he’d slept. Achilles got the distinct impression that Henri was making an effort not to reveal his new sleeping arrangements to his servants. The warrior was equable about this. Men being lovers had not shocked the Greeks, but with the fading of the Greek and Roman gods, and the rise of the Hebrew god, it seemed as though this aspect of life was becoming cloaked in secrecy.

As yet, these new, stricter sensibilities had not encroached too heavily upon Achilles’ arrangements with his Hector, and he had adapted. He supposed he would continue to adapt, but he had to admit to himself, he didn’t like it. He had no dislike of this Jesus, but he had best not pick a fight with Achilles either; this was how the warrior saw it. As for Saracens, he had no idea how they felt about these issues. Since their first priority seemed always to destroy his Hector’s world, he didn’t like them much, whichever way they leaned.

He was interrupted from these ruminations when Henri descended the stairs, looking eager and brisk, and ready to return to the task of his project. Achilles hoped he had awoken and looked at his arm and throat and chest, and been pleased with the progress of Achilles’ own little project. 

Matilde offered them a repast, and Henri partook, but once again, Achilles found that he was not hungry, and contented himself with sitting at the table, drinking water, and listening to Henri. His beloved’s husky baritone seemed somehow even more throaty in this language.

“Jevay temeney ohseet ehtupuh supervisey lezomme pendahk jevey ala carrier icommonsey a-organizey lavraisoh deypiar ke javay tayey…” Henri informed him, scooping up his eggs.

Achilles concentrated on listening. _You-supervise-I-go-organize-deliver…_ he nodded, eyes full of his affection. Henri spoke on, and Achilles occasionally interrupted to repeat a word. If he couldn’t figure it out, Henri would try to remember the Latin equivalent.

Eventually, Achilles felt he was developing a working vocabulary specific to the project. _Fortress, wall, tower, stone, mason, deliver, wagon, men, labor, payment._ He had also worked out _I, you, come, go, wait, now._ It was enough.

Thus it was that Achilles found himself designated a mount from Henri’s stable—it turned out there was a third servant, Mark, whose quarters were at the end of the wing near the stables. He saddled up and rode out to the site, where seven of the eight men were waiting for him, including Otto.

“Alphonse may be late,” Otto said apologetically. “He drank a bit last night.”

Achilles nodded. “He’ll not get paid the same if he doesn’t work the same,” he warned, and Otto shrugged. He couldn’t control his friend.

The men at hand were willing to accept Achilles’ directions, and they set to work laying the remainder of the stones within the marked off square, and by noon, the floor of the tower was nearly complete. Alphonse came dragging up, grumpy and quiet, just before Matilde and Gosse arrived with the food. They brought it in a basket, as before, and Achilles had to admit; Henri hadn’t undertaken this plan lightly. It wasn’t a childish dream; it was something he had already set in motion. The organization was there. He supposed the only things slowing him down had been the illness, and the difficulty of undertaking it all alone. And perhaps, lack of funds.

Achilles stepped to Matilde. “How did Lord Henri pay for all this initial outlay?” He asked, gesturing toward the stones that now lay set in the ground.

“Sold the estate up north, let most of the servants go,” Matilde said simply.

“Would it have been enough?” Achilles asked.

“Henri doesn’t talk to me about money, but I think no. I think if you had not come…” she shrugged.

Achilles nodded, and they turned when they saw Henri approaching on horseback. His Hector dismounted and came forward, stepping between the men as they lunched, and gave Achilles another friendly slap on the arm. He looked approvingly at the nearly finished foundation, and then spoke to his angel at length in the manner of a man speaking with a trusted associate. 

Achilles listened attentively. _I-stones-wagon-here-you stay._ He nodded, and after making the rounds amongst his crew to talk and listen to them, Henri, Matilde, and Gosse left with the wagon, leaving both horses with Achilles. 

The warrior resumed, after lunch, supervising the laying of the last stones, and just as they were stepping about on them, gazing with satisfaction at the smooth, firm, tightly fitted flooring, the wagon came trundling slowly back, laden with eight large, square cut stones. Gosse drove, Matilde was nowhere to be seen—Achilles supposed they dropped her back at the manse, and Henri walked alongside to lessen the weight the horses had to pull.

“Noo devopu-say!” Henri called, as the cart began its difficult path up the incline, and the men ran down to help push the cart. Once the cart was wrestled up to the site, the men stood around, sweating, and looking unenthusiastic about lifting the stones off the cart. 

After they had rested for a bit, two of the larger fellows stepped forward, gloves on, and began tugging and grunting, working one of the stones to the edge of the cart. Achilles watched with some amusement as the two men struggled and swore, and finally one of them climbed up and got behind the heavy block to push it to the edge. The other fellow hauled it backward and eventually, a man on either end, they carried it to the nearest corner of the foundation.

“Ne le pah tombey!” Henri barked, and grimacing, they set it gently on the exact corner and stepped back. A cheer rose and everyone clapped good-humoredly at this laying of the first block of the tower. Achilles picked a reed and put in his mouth, and watched.

“Who’s next?” The big fellow cried. “Who can do better than that, eh?”

Two more men took the task of the next block, and the others watched and jested, commenting and critiquing as to which pair had the best technique and superior strength to move the block. They earned their cheers and applause and stepped back, winded and flushed, raising their eyebrows in appreciation for the difficulty of the task.

Otto and Alphonse stepped forward to claim the third block, and Alphonse levered himself between the blocks on the wagon, turned and set his back to the block, pushing with his legs to shove it to the edge of the wagon. This clever technique earned him a _Wooo_ of approval, following by a series of snarky remarks on people who were more clever than strong. They staggered to the foundation and laid the third block, and to any sallies about how long it took, they replied with hand gestures that Achilles didn’t recognize, but understood perfectly well.

This friendly competition went on until the last block remained, and Alphonse threw the challenge to Henri and Achilles. Could his Lordships do any better?

Henri turned his head this way and that with a modest smile, and then got serious. He jumped up onto the wagon, and the men let rise a holler of appreciation. His Lordship was going to get dirty?! Oh, too amusing. They clapped that he was even willing to try. Achilles stepped to the end of the wagon and held out his arms, moving his hands in clear offer: _Come, come, you get it to the end of the wagon, I’ll take it from there._ The workers watched gleefully, nudging each other.

Henri crouched behind the last block, bracing his feet on the side of the wagon under the seat, and plowed forward with it, shoving it firmly to the edge. The men applauded, nodding. _Not bad for a gentleman with soft hands,_ their glances said.

Achilles picked up the block as if it were a baby and walked easily to the foundation, setting it gently at the end of the row. He scooched it a bit to align it perfectly and then looked up. Eight workers, Henri, and Gosse were staring in open-mouthed silence. Even the horses seemed to peer at him. He wiped his hands casually and smiled smugly at them.

A general exhalation of chagrin greeted this stunt, followed by a few uncertain chuckles. Alphonse whistled.

Henri was the first to recover, and applaud. The others took it up, shaking their heads in bemusement. That was not normal, their mutterings clearly said, but when Achilles drew forth his bag to pay them for the day, and Gosse tugged the cask from under the seat to give them their complimentary one-for-the-road, no one shrank away. 

The second day of the building of Canua Keep was pronounced a success, and even the horses held their heads higher, undoubtedly happy to find, when they started for home, that Achilles and Lord Henri were lighter than the eight large-cut blocks of sandstone that marked the bottom row of the first third of the east wall. 

As they rode away, Achilles glanced back, doing some calculations in his head. It would take twelve loads to complete each layer of the tower wall. Once they were on the fifth layer, they would need scaffolds and he knew not what sort of paraphernalia to get blocks up on top. The higher they went, the more he wondered how it was to be accomplished. Achilles was not ashamed to admit: he’d never built a castle with his bare hands before.

As they sat in the back of the cart and trundled toward home, Achilles gave Henri’s arm a pat with the back of his hand.

“Commo… alte? Alto? Aute?” He gestured as if lifting a block high over head. 

Henri nodded, understanding the question. “Kanoosum sheymwa, jetemontray.”

Achilles squinted at him. “Sheymwa eh Domo?”

Henri tilted his head and give his angel a sweet smile. “Oui. Domo!”

Achilles smiled back, content to wait until they were home.


	16. Languages

Back at the manse, Henri led Achilles to the library. Achilles wandered about, pinching candles to life while Henri dug out a sheaf of large papers that were rolled about two long, wooden rods, scroll like, and spread them out on his heavy oak desk.

“Dakor, regarday—“ he paused, belatedly noticing that his angel was lighting candles with his bare fingers again. Henri smiled delightedly, but said nothing about it. It seemed he had always known that the blond angel who would come to him one day would probably be possessed of various magical powers.

Achilles prowled back to him, and Henri resumed. “Regarday, ohfay comsa, pah comsi,” he explained, showing the blueprints of the process. The warrior looked with him, noting the timber scaffolds they would eventually need, and platforms. Another sheet seemed to indicate a need for a kiln and devices for stirring limestone, water and sand. Another drawing delineated the walls as being much thicker at the bottom, and Achilles nodded, realizing that they’d need even more stone than he’d initially imagined. More stone, more wood, more men, more wagons.

“Dakor,” he said, having figured out that this was _okay._

Henri placed a few paperweights on the scrolls, holding them open, and straightened with a deep breath. Then his eyes lifted to his angels, and his brows had that worried slant that Achilles knew so well.

“Jaypurkeh…” he gestured to the little purse Achilles kept his gold pebbles in, and switched to Latin, saying stiltedly, “Not enough.”

Achilles smiled. Even Henri’s Latin had a delicate precision about the consonants that lay on his speech like a coat of pretty watercolor.

“Come,” he invited. Taking a candle, he led Henri out of the library and through the manse to the inner courtyard. It was nearly dark out now, and Achilles knelt down and scooped up a handful of pebbles, showing them to his beloved, and then returning to the library with them. Once in good lighting, he held them, concentrated for a moment, and then slowly opened his hand and let the gold spill onto the desk.

To say Henri was overcome would not be an overstatement. His hands came together as if in prayer and then lifted to his mouth. He sank into a chair and stared at the golden pebbles, and then up at his angel. His eyes were brimming.

Achilles moved behind him and put his hands on Henri’s shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his beloved’s temple.

“I’ll build you anything you want,” he whispered, and kissed him again, burying his nose in the dark curls and inhaling. Then he leaned away, bringing himself under control. “Come. We sup,” he said.

As they dined at the end of the long, empty table together, Henri was clearly going over what they needed. He spoke at length, occasionally pausing to count on his fingers, and look meaningfully at Achilles. His angel picked at his food—not hungry—and nodded agreeably. _Whatever you desire,_ he thought. 

When the food was cleared away, Henri summoned Matilde and gave her some directions. She turned to Achilles.

“I’m sure you are fatigued. I’ll have the water brought and the fire lit in your chamber immediately.”

Henri gave him a meaningful look, and Achilles understood that it was important to him to keep up the appearance of their separate rooms, their separate evenings… Achilles stood and gave him a little bow.

“Bonum vesperum, Lord Henri.”

Smiling at the formal tone, Henri looked him in the eye and responded quietly, “Bunwi.”

Bunwi, Achilles repeated in his head, and went to his chamber. It was dark when he entered the room, and he felt for a candle and pinched it to life. Then, with a sigh, he lit the others and waited for Matilde. 

“Oh, you are here already,” she remarked when she entered. She carried the log holder to the fireplace and knelt to load it up and light it.

“Matilde,” Achilles asked when she was finished, “can you read?”

“Of course,” she looked a bit indignant.

“Can you read in Lord Henri’s language?” 

Her indignation receded. “A bit,” she hedged.

“Can you get me a book from the library in his language?” Achilles asked.

“What book?”

“Something old. Something by Homer or Ovid.” Achilles asked.

She looked a bit uncertain, but nodded, and left. Achilles availed himself of the warmed water for cleaning, and dug into his satchel for his oils. He was beginning to feel as though he’d like to gleam and smell sweet for his Hector.

Matilde went to the library on her mission and was rather relieved to find her Lordship there, perusing his plans again.

“Your guest,” she informed him, “would like a book in lang-d’oc. I think he means to teach himself your language.”

Henri’s eyes lit up. “If anyone can do it, he can. What book does he want?”

Matilde looked her disapproval. “He needs the Bible, is what he needs. But he wants some pagan Greek authors… but in lang-d’oc. Do you have anything of that sort?”

“Oh,” Henri straightened thoughtfully. “No. No such thing exists. I have Ovid in the original Latin, which I can barely muddle through. It’s here—“ he turned to one of the shelves and ran his long fingers over the bindings of several books before he located it and pulled it from the shelf. “Here, you can give… in fact, I will take it to him myself. You need trouble yourself no more tonight, Matilde.”

She hovered for a moment, looking troubled, and smoothed her graying hair back with an absent hand. “Henri,” she began, in a tone he recognized.

“He’s not a sorcerer, Matilde!” Henri said. “He’s an angel. Can’t you tell his accent is Greek? Sorcerers are Celts. Who ever heard of a Greek sorcerer? But the New Testament was all written in Greek, so you see? He must be an angel.”

Matilde considered that and it seemed to comfort her. Henri smiled and returned to his plans. She watched for a moment, and then finally gave him an affectionate pat on the arm. “Don’t read at night; you’ll go blind.”

“That’s an old wives tale, Matilde,” Henri told her, smiling back.

“You’ll see,” she warned, “or maybe you won’t!”

“Oh, oh!” He nodded. “I see! Or maybe I won’t!”

This was a familiar exchange for them both, and she left the library reassured that her Henri was not in the clutches of a sorcerer. Probably. But Achilles still made Matilde a bit uneasy.


	17. Waiting

Henri bathed in his room and then dressed again in tomorrow’s clothes. It was a simple matter to slip into Achilles’ chamber like this, and in the morning, as soon as he heard the servants stirring, to dress quickly and step out. If he was encountered, it would look as though he had already risen and dressed, and then gone to consult with his new patron.

His heart rate sped up as soon as he left his room and moved into the corridor toward his angel’s quarters. He was not entirely certain the nature of his angel’s regard for him, but it was clearly deep and intimate. Henri was inexperienced in love, but felt as though instinct would guide him if Achilles put hands on him with intent. The dreams he’d had most of his life were his guide. There was a blond angel, and that angel loved him, and would come for him one day. His faith had wavered when he’d received word of his parents’ death in one of the many Saracen raids. He became Lord Henry at 19. In the ensuing 10 years, he’d waited for his angel, and waited. And waited. Yes, his faith had nearly died with him on that miserable, agonizing night when he was at the peak of his fever, tormented with the lesions that covered his body.

Then, relief. Amazing relief. Henri would never forget the feeling of solace and peace that had filled him. And he’d opened his eyes, and in the firelight, there was the being he’d dreamed of so long ago, with the yellow hair, and the handsome face. It was like coming home.

But when he’d regained a bit more clarity, he was nonplussed to find that he and his angel could barely comprehend one another. The realization brought him from his vaguely erotic, hazy dreams to sharp reality: angels were apparently far more human, and yet far more mysterious, than Henri had imagined. And as such, even more exciting. In some ways, Achilles was shockingly human. His facial expressions were varied and occasionally comical. His fascination with the abacus he’d bought from the Jew delighted Henri, and they’d tinkered with it a bit together before admitting that neither of them had a clue how to use it.

Henri felt like a child who has suddenly found a best friend, albeit one he couldn’t understand. But this friend seemed immediately helpful, amenable, supportive, and… well, he was terribly beautiful, wasn’t he? And the powers he had! It was all quite dazzling, to have one’s boyhood fantasies of a magical, secret best friend come to life at this late age of nearly 30.

Yes, Henri’s heartbeat certainly sped up when he left his room to make his way toward Achilles, stepping quietly on the carpet in the dark hallway, opening the door very quietly so the hinges didn’t creak. And then, to see his angel waiting in the massive bed for him, rolling his head on the pillow toward him and giving him that quiet smile, pulling down the covers for him… it was the stuff of dreams. Henri was only waiting to see just how much like some of those dreams it was going to become.

Achilles watched his Hector step forward quietly, and place his candle gently on the mantel. He turned and closed the bedroom door, and drew the bolt. The warrior stretched luxuriously on his white sheets and waited while Henri drew close and held out something—a book! Achilles sat up and took it, but saw at a glance it was in Latin. He smiled politely and put it aside. 

Henri grimaced, understanding that this was not what his angel had hoped for. Achilles turned back to him, glancing at the empty spot in the bed pointedly. Henri hesitated for a moment, and then shed his shirt and gestured toward his right arm with hopeful eyes.

Yes, of course, Achilles would smooth those scars away! Come to bed, Henri! Let the angel work his magic, inch by slow inch in the firelight. 

Henri slid into the bed, aware that tonight, his angel smelled more wonderful than ever, like the incense from the church, but with a hint of spice, a hint of musk. He sank into the pillow and gazed up into the inscrutable blue eyes and let the scent drift up his nose and into his head. 

Achilles drew the blankets up over him and moved close, insinuating himself warmly under Henri’s left arm and propping himself up on one elbow with his forearm under Henri’s neck. Then the angel leaned over his patient and begin caressing and polishing his right arm to white smoothness. 

Henri lay, drowning in bliss as the warm golden skin pressed against his. The blond hair swung down in his face, and it was smooth and scented. Lazily he brought his hand up to run his fingers through it, and play with it.

Achilles drew one powerful leg up and laid it over Henri’s thighs, and it was just more euphoric, to be wrapped up in angel. Or sorcerer; Henri wouldn’t have cared at this point, which was perhaps a dangerous mindset, but the hair was like silk in his fingers, and the scent was in his nose, and the warm, muscular body was pressed against his, and the fingers were stroking up his arm to his shoulder, and really, it would be worth going to Hell for, he thought muzzily.

“Sela plu zeroh ke jay jamay etey,” he murmured in Achilles’ ear. 

As for Achilles, he was already having difficulty restraining himself. He had no idea what Henri had just said so breathily in his ear. The words _I_ and _most_ were all he caught, but it hardly mattered. Just the sibilant intimacy of his Hector’s beloved voice uttering anything in that accent… it was all he could do to keep his mouth off that throat! His erection was buried in folds of sheet, and he was terribly tempted to shift his thigh up a little higher and just check, just discover if Henri was in a similar state.

“Plu zeroh?” He murmured back, moving his hand to smooth the skin over Henri’s ribs.

Henri wet his lips with his tongue, trying to remember the Latin for _happy._ “Felix… maxime felix…”

Achilles full lips curved in satisfaction and he turned to gaze down into his Hector’s heavy lidded dark eyes. _How I want you,_ he thought, and then drew in his breath and thought as gently as a whisper: _sleep._

Henri sank into sleep, and Achilles rolled away from him, breathing deeply to calm himself. He wanted to wait, he wanted to wait. He didn’t even know WHY he wanted to wait, but he did. He looked over at his Hector sleeping sweetly on the pillow, his lips parted, the dark, short whiskers framing them as they did, his jawline, his long neck, the dark curls… oh, it never grew old. 

With a curse, he reached for his pot of oil on the table near the candle, stuck his fingers in it without ceremony, and brought his slick fingers down to his turgid cock. Brow furrowed with impatience, he pleasured himself quietly in the bed with hard, rough strokes, burying his face in Henri’s shoulder as he came with a shudder. 

When he recovered, Achilles dried himself with a towel, cleaned his hands, and crawled back into the bed, determined to wipe away every scar on Henri’s torso. When he finished, he carefully maneuvered his beloved onto his stomach and used his entire hand to massage the skin of his back until it was perfect.

Finally, Achilles fell back onto the pillow on his own side of the bed. Tomorrow night, Henri might look down at his legs and decide he’d like them smooth again too, and Achilles doubted he’d be able to do it without losing control. He bit his lip, and then rolled back, putting his face on Henri’s back and rubbing it against the warm skin like an animal marking its territory. 

After a few long moments of this, his eyes were black with renewed desire. He lifted his head and looked at his oil again. Yes, probably once more, so he could sleep. He kissed his beloved’s back ardently, all up the spine and into the nape, resisting the urge to bite. Then, with a growl, he grabbed his oil again. Yes. Just once more. Then sleep, please, let there be sleep!


	18. Many Wheels Are Turning

Once again, Henri awoke alone in Achilles’ bed. He rose and stood in the early morning light coming in the window, inspecting his arms and torso. Smooth as if he’d never suffered. He turned to the cloudy, polished glass over the wash basin and craned his head to look at his back. Perfect as a painting, glowing white against the dark wood of the walls. Glancing self-consciously toward the door, Henri loosened the lacings on his trousers and lowered them. No, Achilles had not encroached there. The scars began exactly, in a line, just above where the trail of dark hair narrowed and traced up in a thin line to his navel. His hips, buttocks, and legs were still pitted.

He wondered if he dared ask his angel to touch those places. His heart rate sped up just a bit at the thought. But then his ruminations turned toward the fortress again. And oh! Oh! His angel had unlimited quantities of gold! Could turn the whole courtyard to gold! 

Henri threw on his clothes, including his leather boots, warm from sitting by the fire, and snuck out of Achilles’ room, heading for his own, where Matilde had left a breakfast on a tray near his bed. He wolfed down what he wanted and left, searching for his angel.

He found Achilles in his library, picking through the books. 

“Buhjoh,” he greeted, feeling suddenly as though he should have the right to go right up and handle his angel, put his hands on the slim waist and pull him close, and grab his head and … just sniff it! Henri restrained himself. “Toovu-un livre?”

“Livre… Libri, yes,” Achilles nodded. He wanted a book written in Henri’s dialect. “No Latin. You. Your language.” He gestured and then sighed, not certain he was getting across.

But Henri understood. Matilde had explained. “Il nya rien,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging. He lifted the Ovid, which Achilles had brought back down with him. “Seh seul.”

 _That’s all,_ Achilles understood. He stood disappointed for a moment, and then turned to the pile of gold. He put all of the pebbles in his bag save one, and pulled out a coin.

“I have to change more,” he said, holding up one pebble and one coin. “This to this.” 

Henri smiled. “Ah, ça pour ça.” He nodded and went to the door. “Gosse!!” He called, and when the servant arrived, arrangements were made to take Achilles back to the money-changer. The warrior was not entirely certain he could find the place again on his own, and so when Henri left for the building site, Achilles went happily with Gosse on the wagon.

“From here we go to the quarry for more stones,” Gosse warned him as they rattled over the cobblestone, and Achilles nodded contentedly. It was a beautiful morning, and warm, and the scent of the sea was never far away. The sun was shining through the leaves.

Achilles paid attention to their route and was soon fairly sure he was developing a good sense of what was where in relation to everything else. The cathedral he’d first approached was north of the graveyard where he’d hid his belongings a century earlier. Henri’s manse was west. The building site was southwest. The downtown was northeast of the cathedral, and the money-changer’s was… _right here,_ he thought, as Gosse pulled up the reins.

When Achilles entered the dark shop, he was pleased to see that Isaac was at hand. The money-changer saw him and came to him immediately, taking Achilles’ hands in his own.

“How can I thank you? Kindest of strangers, look, look,” he tugged the warrior to the back of the store. “Nahum! Nahum, he is here!”

Footsteps pattered down the steps, and Achilles looked at the young man coming toward him. He was scarred, but he was healthy, and his angular young face was now clearly very similar to his father’s. Achilles looked at the both of them, feeling that tug of familiarity once again. Who did they both look like? Particularly the elder, with his defined, sharp, yet pleasant features. The eyes were as black as Hector’s.

Nahum took Achilles hand and kissed it. “I owe you my life,” he said in a quiet voice, but his eyes were intense.

Paris.

It came to him then, Paris. Not the boy, the father! Achilles turned and stared at Isaac. Yes, Paris. It was him. Well, had he lived well into adulthood, lived long enough to begin to go gray. The warrior drew in a breath, feeling a prickle along his spine. It was not that remarkable, though, was it? That many souls may be turning along the wheel of fate at roughly the same rotation? His mother had found an Odysseus. He’d found Eudorus twice now.

It was even right that Paris was older. It made sense, that each soul had its own schedule, that they would not be exactly aligned. And there must be others. Achilles wondered suddenly if he’d ever passed by an old man in the street and not recognized an aged Patroclus, or seen a little boy playing with his friends and not recognized a tiny Ajax or Agamemnon. A stately matron or retiring nun might be another Briseis, all of them going about their new lives, unaware. 

Now he wished that time would slow down, even stop, so that he could search amongst the people around him. Or go back, and look again at those from the past. Had Dru once been a Myrmidon, full grown with a hoary beard? Might a young, blue-eyed Priam have been on one of the ships that came to deal with Count Ovida? And Lucien the monk, where was he now? Simon? Achilles knew a moment of dizziness.

“Are you well?” Isaac asked him, concerned.

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Achilles blinked. He tried to remember why he’d come. “Oh, I must change more gold, can you… ?”

“Of course, of course,” Isaac gestured him back to the counter.

Nahum followed them. “My father tells me you are the patron of Lord Henri, and he’s building a fortress to protect us from the Saracens,” he said eagerly.

Achilles looked at him again. He resembled his father greatly. Paris, the younger. “I am. We are, yes.”

Isaac weighed the gold quietly, slipping the stones back and forth on their dowels methodically, moving his lips as he counted to himself.

“I want to help!” Nahum said. 

Achilles looked at his slender form doubtfully. “The stones are very heavy.”

Isaac counted out the coins. “He can drive a wagon. We have a wagon,” he put in mildly, but his eyes were like his son’s: eager to repay, eager to help. Achilles found himself nodding along at them both. _Very well. You want to help._

Thus it was that by the third day, they had two wagons to relay back and forth from the stone mason by the quarry to the building site.

Once Achilles had detoured with Gosse to the quarry, Nahum behind them learning the way, the introductions were made. Now they traveled together to the site, and Henri stood beaming at how his angel simply seemed to gather and attract people to come and work on the Canua Keep. Otto had recruited four more men, and one of them was a joiner, who knew how to work with wood. It was all coming together, like destiny.

Achilles turned his back for a moment on the building site to look out to the rolling blue waves. The breeze blew his blond hair back and he squinted at the horizon, his mind going back over all the people he had known in every incarnation. Where were they now? The monks, mouthy Max… Helen? Did she and Paris meet again and again? Or was that only for stubborn creatures like Achilles, who refused to die and refused to let go?

“Arrghh!” A cry of pain behind him, followed by an outcry of alarm from several other throats, made Achilles whip around in alarm. His eyes sought out Henri, but he was running toward the cluster of workers hovering around Alphonse, who lay on the stones, his face twisted in pain. A block had fallen on his leg, and by the horrid angle of his lower limb, it was broken.

Achilles pushed his way through the men and knelt at Alphonse’s side. His face was clenched in a grimace, and he drew in his breath and let out another deep groan of agony.

“Bad luck,” Achilles heard a man behind him say. This would not do. One scent of jinx and the men would abandon the undertaking in superstition.

The warrior put a hand on Alphonse’s forehead and quietly sank him into sleep. Then, laying him on his back, he lifted the corner of the stone off of the wounded leg with one hand, laying it aside casually. It must be admitted, he might have been showing off just a bit, keenly aware of the audience he had.

Rolling up the pant-leg, he exposed the crooked limb, hearing the intake of breath all around him. He turned to Eudorus—well, Otto.

“Come. Hold his knee steady.”

Vivid blue eyes wide and anxious, yet trusting, Otto knelt and steadied Alphonse’s leg.

Achilles pulled on the unconscious man’s foot until the bones were dragged back into alignment. All around him, the men watched in cringing fascination, wincing with sympathy pangs. When the bones were aligned, he put his hands on them, feeling with his fingers to ensure they were as perfectly straight and correctly re-fitted as he could, and then closed his eyes and concentrated. _Heal… heal… heal…_

When he sat back he looked around. “Let’s move him out of the way. He’ll sleep for a few hours.”

Gosse grabbed the canvas from the wagon and they made a bed on the grass off to the side for the sleeping Alphonse.

Henri decided this was a good time for a bracing drink of the vile _biere,_ and he wisely broke out the mugs and gave out drinks with the air of a benevolent barkeep. Achilles politely declined, barely able to keep his upper lip from curling up under his nostrils at the very thought of the stuff.

When the men had quaffed a drink or two, and discussed their perception of the accident thoroughly, and replayed the incident two or three times, and recalled every broken bone they’d ever had, or seen, or heard of, Achilles came forward and grabbed a block of stone, carrying it over to the rising wall, as a sign that it was time to begin again.

Nahum took a volunteer with him to return to the quarry for another load, and work recommenced. 

Henri came to stand very close to Achilles, their shoulders brushing as they leaned against Gosse’s wagon.

“Alphonse, ilva recuperey?”

“Certe!” Achilles assured him.

“Certaymah?” Henri corrected him teasingly.

“Cer-tay-mah!” Achilles said deliberately. “Alphonse-va-re-coo-per-ey-cer-tay-mah!”

Henri looked him in the eye, and then leaned close and said low in his angel’s ear, “Tre bien!”

Achilles looked back, goosebumps breaking out all over his back and arms. His Hector was flirting with him! Oh, it was worth waiting, it certainly was! But his pupils flared and darkened his eyes. 

Henri noticed it, by his little smile. He crossed his arms over his chest again, and the two turned their attention to the rising walls of Canua Keep. But their attention was completely on each other.


	19. Alphonse

As the sun sank, and the last of the stones were laid, Alphonse awoke and sat up on the canvas.

“What happened?” He said.

Before anyone could speak, Achilles called out, “You fell asleep!”

The men grinned at one another and waited. Alphonse shifted about on the canvas uncertainly. “No, my … my leg! I broke my leg!”

“What?? Nonsense!” Achilles said with a smile. “Does it feel broken?”

Alphonse bent his leg gingerly and rotated his ankle once or twice. Then he glanced around at the semi-circle of men gathered to watch proceedings.

“No,” he said uncertainly. 

Achilles came to him and offered a hand. “Let’s see if you can stand.”

The man took the warrior’s hand and came to his feet, stepping testingly about. His face was a study in perplexity. The men were beginning to chuckle. The struggle between awe at a miraculous healing of Biblical proportions and the temptation to play a prank on a peer was clearly at war in most of their minds.

“But I broke it. A block fell on it!” Alphonse insisted.

“I think you had a bad dream after you fell asleep on the job.” Achilles told him boldly, casting a wink at the men behind him.

The other men took up the ploy. 

“You were snoring in the sun after lunch time.”

“We couldn’t wake you up!”

“Your arms and legs were going like this! We said: he’s chasing a rabbit!” The men roared at that one.

Alphonse did not look amused. His eyes went from one to the other until finally Otto had a pang of conscience. 

“Yes, a block fell on your leg, and it looked very bad. You passed out. But Lord Achilles straightened you out, and it wasn’t as bad as we thought,” Otto improvised.

Alphonse stared down at his leg, and took a few more tentative steps. Then he straightened. Then he took another step. Then he took several more, and swaggered a bit. 

“Well, in my family, we’re pretty tough, you know,” he declared, thumping his chest with both hands. “Never sick a day.”

“Hung-over several days,” one fellow called, and Alphonse wagged his head with a smirk.

“Not sick, though.” He maintained stoutly.

Henri shook his head and motioned for Gosse to drain the last of the keg for the crew. His Lordship handed out the coins, making sure the men all left in good spirits, and willing and eager to return tomorrow. The perimeter of the tower was three quarters laid.

“Ekutay,” he called, and they turned attentively. “Oh-na beswah d’un otre wagon, pour ley pierre.”

One fellow nodded. “My cousin has a farm, and a wagon he won’t need till harvest. If we can find a driver, he’ll let us use the wagon.”

Another worker piped up. “My father could drive it.”

“Your father’s deaf!” His friend protested.

“But he’s not blind!” The first one snapped back, backhanding his friend’s arm. 

Henri smiled. “Bien. Dakor, bien. A demah!” He lifted his hand to dismiss them.

“A demah!” Several returned as they moved toward the path leading down the hill.

Achilles whispered to Otto. “What is a demah?” 

“Till tomorrow,” his Eudorus replied. 

Achilles nodded and clapped him on the back. Then he went to young Nahum, fishing a coin from his purse. The boy tried to decline it, but Achilles insisted.

“Before you go, may I ask you about your mother?”

Nahum stiffened a little defensively. 

“No, I just want to know… did she have hair like mine?” Achilles asked, wanting to know if Helen and Paris had found each other again.

Puzzled, the boy shook his head. “No. She had hair like mine. We’re Jewish,” he said carefully, as if explaining to someone who was clearly not from these parts.

Achilles smiled and nodded in defeat. “Listen, if you want, I can help with the scars. Come back tomorrow, and I will.”

Nahum’s eyes brightened. “Thank you. Yes. Till tomorrow.” He guided his horse around and his wagon joined the little caravan leaving the site.

Achilles turned to see Henri watching their exchange intently. Then he lowered his eyes and turned to direct Gosse to retrieve the canvas. His mood seemed a bit less cheery, and the warrior wondered at it for a moment.

Henri shot Nahum a parting look, and Achilles stifled a smile. His Hector was jealous! A thrill ran through him at the thought. He got into the back of the wagon and turned an innocent blue gaze to his Lordship as he climbed into the wagon and gave his angel a rather stern look. Achilles settled happily back against the side of the wagon. He did love a little stern Hector in the evening.

After dinner, Achilles accompanied his beloved into the library and obtained a sheet of parchment and a quill, and sat at the table near the desk. Henri perused his plans, trying not to be curious about what his angel was doing. But his glances over at the blond hair falling forward toward the sheet of parchment betrayed his interest.

After a bit, Achilles leaned back and beckoned his Hector over. Henri came and looked in puzzlement at the list of nonsense words on the paper. He shook his head to indicate his bewilderment.

“A demah,” Achilles pointed. A look of comprehension came over Henri’s face, and he took the quill. Underneath it, he wrote neatly _à demain._ Then he read over the list, a wide smile on his face at Achilles’ rendering of what he was hearing. He sat down at his angel’s side and wrote the words as he knew them next to each entry.

Dakor – _d’accord_  
Ekutay- _écoutez_  
Eesee – _ici_ (Henri laughed at that one. “Eeee seeee,” he murmured, eyebrows raised.)  
Bunwi - _Bonne nuit_  
Bohjo - _Bon jour_  
Wee – _oui_ (that earned him another amused look, which Achilles drank up without shame.)  
Sheymua- Henri studied that one, shaking his head. “Domo,” his angel prompted.

“Ahh,” he sighed, and wrote _chez moi_. “Chez,” he gestured around them. “Moi,” he touched his own chest, his eyes large and black, and looking into his angel’s. Then he touched Achilles’ chest. “Toi,” he breathed. Then he touched his own chest, and his angel’s. “Ensemble? Nous,” he said, very quietly.

“Nous,” Achilles said back. Their faces were very close.

“Nous. Sommes. Ensemble.” Henri said, eyes still searching the blue eyes and defined lineaments of his angel’s countenance.

“Noosum onsomble,” Achilles repeated, hypnotized. “Onsomble?”

Henri looked away for a moment, trying to remember the Latin. “Simul,” he finally said.

_Together,_ Achilles realized. _We are together._

“Nous sommes ensemble,” he said with more assurance. 

“Enfin,” Henri added in a whisper, and took his angel’s face in his hands, and kissed him on those full, pink lips.

Achilles sagged forward into those hands, kissing back very carefully. He felt Henri’s fingers tighten and full him forward, and he went willingly, his hands finding his beloved’s long thighs and bracing himself on them. The kiss deepened and grew more insistent, and Henri gave as good as he got. Their heads tipped, and their mouths fitted to each other as they had with every turn of fate’s wheel. Their tongues found each other and danced and tangled as if they were experts at kissing one another. And so they were.

When Henri finally drew back, his lips were red and moist, and his breathing was deep. He sat for a moment as if composing himself. 

With a little smile, Achilles withdrew and stood, taking his list in one hand and a candle in the other. 

“A demain, Lord Henri,” he said loudly as he exited the library.

Henri sat, one elbow on the table, his fingers to his lips, and gave Achilles a side-eye that promised, _this is not over._

“A demain, mon ange,” was all he said in return, however, and listened as his angel bade Gosse and Matilde a polite good evening as well. 

Henri turned back to the table, rubbing his face with both hands. He would have to wait a good half hour before it was safe to retreat to his chamber, perform his evening ablutions, and then sneak in tomorrow’s clothes to his angel’s quarters. He was quite certain that tonight would be a very exciting night. He pressed a hand to his groin, feeling a sharp pleasure at the pressure on his hardened flesh. Then he bit his lip and brought his hands back to his lips. _Achilles, Achilles…_ he thought. Then he realized… never in his dreams had a name appeared. Only the face, the hair, the warm, muscular form. He wondered why.


	20. Memento

Achilles went straight to his room, lit the candles, cleaned and groomed himself, and waited in the bed, fingers drumming. When he heard the slight creaks of his beloved stepping carefully down the corridor to his angel’s room, he gave his hair a shake, turned on his side, struck a graceful pose and waited with a glitter in his blue eyes. 

Henri opened the door quietly, his eyes gladdened at the sight of Achilles naked in the bed. His golden skin gleamed, and his head was propped on one hand, the blond hair in a wave over his cheek. The sheet was riding low on his waist. 

Coming to the bed, Henri slipped off his shirt and lowered himself to the bed, rolling up a trouser leg and displaying one long, shapely, but scarred calf. 

“Est-ce que tu pourrais…?” _Could you?_

Achilles motioned for him to scoot up to the head of the bed, and Henri settled himself there while his angel—sheet still managing to twine itself modestly about the lean muscled hips—knelt and took one foot in his hands. Achilles bent over Henri’s foot and began, and suddenly, in his memory, he was in the tower with Hermenegild, cradling a wounded foot.

Lifting his head to Henri, he stared at him, wondering if there was any remnant of this memory in his head. He doubted it. For Xander it had been a trace of a dream, and for Karan, nothing at all. It wasn’t good to remember pain, according to his mother and Luke. Achilles lowered his head and devoted himself to removing the scars from the foot and lower leg. But when he finished, he brought Henri’s foot to his chest in spasm of emotion and pressed it there, bowing over it, brooding.

Henri sat in the bed, looking at this image: the naked angel, his hair covering his face, the sheets trailing across his lap, his defined thighs spread and gleaming in the candlelight, cradling Henri’s foot. They both were very still. Henri swallowed. It was clear something was at work in Achilles’ head. He had seen and identified that flash of realization, followed by questioning, and then sadness.

Henri was not insensitive. That look had asked him something. _Do you remember,_ or _do you understand,_ those were the options.

“Un memento?” He asked softly.

Surprised, Achilles opened his eyes and looked at his Hector, sitting there, alert, eyes wide, curls wild. He nodded.

“Toi et moi? Ensemble?” Henri whispered.

Lips parting, Achilles nodded again. “Olim,” he told him. _Long ago._

“Olim,” Henri repeated wonderingly.

Getting control of himself, Achilles released the foot and took up the other, beginning his ministrations again. As he caressed it, he found himself slowly growing glad that this foot had never been broken, that Henri had never endured that suffering and fear. Looking up again at that open face, and remembering Hermenegild’s set look of pain, he realized it was better that his efforts be forgotten than that his Hector carried that trauma through the ages. The pain in Achilles’ chest eased and he found himself relaxing.

Because the attraction between them certainly seemed to have traveled through time and space, and if he must choose what his Hector would carry, was it not best that he carry nothing but a reliable weakness for a certain blond stranger who was always following one step behind? Surely it was! He breathed deep and concentrated on that thought, and smoothed away the marks on his shin while the fire in the fireplace crackled in the night.

Achilles finished his treatment and looked at the trousers that were Henri’s only garment, the cloth pushed up to his knees. Then he raised his eyebrows philosophically to his beloved, saying at a glance, _if you want smooth thighs, you’ll have to lose the pants._

Henri’s face split in a wide, embarrassed grin. Erotica was all well and good, but having scars all over his buttocks made him suddenly unsure he was ready to drop the final veil. Achilles smirked, knowing full well what his beloved was thinking. Henri couldn’t know how utterly his angel loved him, and how completely unconcerned he was about Henri’s current state of appeal.

“Let’s go,” he said, beckoning with all eight fingers.

Henri pulled the sheet up modestly and removed his trousers beneath them. Then, clutching the sheet to his navel, he allowed one long leg to be exposed. Achilles used his full palm and went slowly, erasing every blemish one area at a time, and Henri sat forward, watching the process with never decreasing fascination. Achilles’ hands moved slowly higher until there was no pretending they weren’t in extremely intimate contact. Henri’s knuckles were white on the sheet.

Amused, Achilles moved to the other thigh and worked his way ever so slowly up. Then he moved his fingers over the white hips, making them perfect and smooth. 

The two looked each other in the eye for a moment. Then Achilles lay on his back and opened his arms, welcoming Henri to lay on top of him. Hands shaking, eyes huge, Henri crawled onto his angel, and the sheets were not between them now. They lay pressed together with no veil of illusion left. They were both aroused, and Henri was overwhelmed. He buried his face in the blond hair about Achilles’ neck and clutched his shoulders, his breath tremulous.

Achilles cupped those round buttocks that were just plump enough to be adorable, and caressed them with utter concentration, feeling with his fingers to find any scars, however tiny, and smooth them away. Henri was rock hard and trembling on top of him, nearly dying of mortification and excitement all at once. His angel smiled. Never had he felt so vastly, indulgently, confidently experienced while his Hector clung to him in shivering anticipation.

Letting his fingers search for any final marks, he ventured nearer and nearer the cleft between those round globes, and Henri’s mouth opened, and his breathing grew fast and shallow. Achilles finally took pity on him and flattened his hand across the crack with non-invasive pressure and simply pushed slowly down while rotating his hips up. Rocking his hips up and down to teach Henri the rhythm, he increased the pressure until his agitated lover gave a strangled cry and convulsed, thrusting against him and ejaculating with a violent shudder.

With a smile of satisfaction at how utterly he could control his new, uninitiated Hector, Achilles cradled his head tenderly, and made him sleep. Then he slid their bodies against each other until his own hard flesh encountered enough of the creamy fluid to let him rock slowly against his sleeping lover’s heaviness, sliding his hard cock against Henri’s belly in slow, luxurious movements, squeezing those buttocks tightly, until he came too, holding his Hector against himself.

When he recovered, he rolled Henri over onto his back, and found a towel to clean them both with. Maneuvering his beloved onto his side facing the fireplace, Achilles then cuddled up to him from behind, pulling the sheets up over them. He wrapped one arm tight around Henri, putting his hand on the full, smooth muscles of his chest, and pulled them snug against one another.

_Any time I find you damaged, I will repair you, and I will be glad you don’t remember all the other times,_ Achilles vowed to himself. _If you will just remember that you love me._


	21. Trouble

When Henri awoke in the morning, he was naked and alone in Achilles’ bed. He lay thinking about the experience, and wondered why he’d passed out immediately afterward. Was his angel sinking him into sleep? Was that one of his magical powers? Henri was willing to bet it was. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Rising, he pulled on his clothing and slipped out, going in search of his angel. A exploration of the manse revealed no Achilles, and finally he found Matilde in the kitchen, who told him that Achilles had gone straight to the quarry to load the first wagon.

Again, Henri had mixed feelings. He was glad his angel was as devoted to the cause of building the fortress as he was, but Henri worried that… maybe Achilles was displeased with something about last night, and was now avoiding him. Insecurity roiled in his gut, and he went to the stable and had his mount saddled up in a mood of deep distraction. 

When Henri arrived at the site, however, his mood lifted. A crew of 20 men awaited him, and set up a cheer when he arrived. Moreover, it was less than a half hour before the first wagon full of blocks arrived from the quarry.

Henri spoke with the joiner, who introduced his two assistants, and they began plans for building scaffolds, which would be needed within the week. Between supervising the men and making plans for the delivery of timbers, Henri almost didn’t notice when Achilles joined him, having come from the quarry on Nahum’s wagon. 

Henri glanced, noted it, and turned back to the joiners, continuing his conversation with them about woodlands whose owners were most likely to donate timbers to the cause. Then suddenly, he glanced again at young Nahum. The scars that had covered his cheeks and forehead yesterday were gone.

Henri’s eyes widened. He swallowed, and excused himself, leaving the joiners for a moment. He went to Achilles and gave him an accusing stare. His angel gave him a blink of non-comprehension. Henri shot a glance over at Nahum, and back. After a moment, Achilles smiled and looked away. Then he turned back to his jealous love.

“Seule—“ he gestured to his face. 

Henri lowered his head bullishly and stared harder. Achilles was delighted, but just repeated his assurance. 

“Seule la visage?” Henri confirmed.

“Seule la visage,” Achilles promised, amused.

Henri stalked back to the joiners, leaving his angel nearly purring with glee. Jealous Hector made Achilles feel like his chest was floating, and going to lift him off his feet. The morning passed by quickly for them both, because there was much to supervise, and much to plan, and plenty of meaningful glances to send to each other in quiet moments.

The fortress, meanwhile, was solidifying before their eyes. Henri had opted for the flared bottom, ordering two rows of blocks laid along the perimeter. They would need mortar to pour before the next row was laid, and identifying crew members who understood the process became the work of the afternoon. 

Meanwhile, Achilles was set to work directing a few men to stake out the lines where the walls would go, and then trenches must be dug for them. Bedrock was too far down, but flared bottoms, again would keep the wall from sinking, so the trenches must be wide enough. 

Because the first batch of mortar would not be made until the morrow, once the crew finished laying the first double row of blocks around the entire perimeter, they all turned to digging the trenches. And the larger crew must be fed, so Matilde was now tasked with finding extra help to prepare food. Achilles passed her a handful of coins so that Henri need not be worried with it.

He was just returning to oversee the work on the trenches when he became aware of a general disruption of the rhythm of labor. Achilles turned to see two men carrying a litter carefully up the path from the beach. On the litter was a man in dire condition. 

“What’s this,” he asked, coming forward.

“Achilles? Are you Achilles? You must be,” one of the men said, and they set the litter down gently. 

Achilles stepped to it and gazed down. The man on it was a bit older than Henri, and clearly a peasant. His clothes were bloody and he was clutching his guts, teeth clenched. 

“What happened?” Achilles asked. 

“Accident at the mill. A spoke on the wheel broke off and went into his stomach,” one of the litter carriers said. “Yesterday,” he added.

Achilles grimaced at the thought that the poor fellow had suffered all night in this condition. He knelt by his side and lifted the bloody shirt over the wound. It was very bad.

Henri came to join him and nodded at him to, by all means, see what he could do.

Achilles felt around gingerly. “Did you get all the wooden splinters out of him?”

“The surgeon did,” the spokesman assured him. “But he just gets redder and hotter. They tried to stitch him up, but he screamed so—“

Achilles sighed. He put his hand on the man’s forehead and sent him off to sleep. Henri watched, realizing now that it was the same motion that—his face grew red to even complete the thought. Fortunately, no one was looking at him. They were watching the blond head bow over the wounded man, watching the hands spread over the torn, bloody flesh of his midsection. 

Pausing, Achilles squinted up at one of the litter bearers again. “What’s his name?”

“Tomas. He’s my brother. I’m Alain.”

Nodding, Achilles returned to Tomas, fingers carefully pressing torn ends of flesh together, closing his eyes. After several moments, a murmur of wonder and excitement arose from the crew. They’d seen it just yesterday with Alphonse—some of them—but it was rather like watching a juggler perform a handy trick: it was just as much fun the second time!

When Achilles had finished, and it was clear the wound was vastly improved, they put Tomas in the shade under one of the wagons, and Alain and the other carrier turned to Achilles.

“We can’t pay you,” Alain said apologetically.

“Yes you can,” Achilles said, pointing toward the trench. “Grab a shovel.”

Henri raised his eyebrows a bit at the firmness of his angel’s tone, but he clapped the fellows on the shoulder and promised them lunch and beer if they’d just dig till Tomas awoke.

Otto watched, and came to stand by Achilles, who he rather regarded as his own discovery. He and Alphonse had been first, after all.

“Word is going to spread, you know,” he warned Achilles. “People are going to come out here wanting healing.”

Achilles nodded. “And I will heal them. And they will know men who cut wood and can bring it, and men who can bring limestone. They’ll know men who need work, men who have shovels… women who can help feed them…”

A smile of wonder grew over Otto’s face, and he gazed again at Achilles with the same respectful devotion his Eudorus had once displayed. “Yes,” was all he said, however.

“We may be too late,” Alphonse said suddenly, staring out to sea. One by one the party of workers turned and a moan arose. Black sails out to sea, and not very far out. The island off-shore had blocked their view, but now the wind was coming due north, and bringing trouble with it. The Saracens were coming.

Achilles ran to the edge of the grassy rise, which dropped off to the sandy beach, and glared. His hand went to his hip but he’d gotten into the habit of leaving his sword at the manse and simply tucking his dagger into his belt. His mood blackened and his face grew dark. He thought for a moment and then narrowed his eyes, glaring out at the black sails.

Lowering his head rather like Hector would, Achilles imagined a wind so strong it would blow the black ships away from the shore, and then he put his ill mood into it. Immediately the breeze that had gently lifted his hair back from his face changed direction and blew from behind him, blowing his long blond tendrils toward the sea.

Curving his back against it, bracing his feet wide apart, clenching his fists, Achilles hated harder. The wind grew stronger, and behind him the men cried out and hunkered down against it. Sand whipped up from the beach and Achilles straightened, trying to direct the winds higher. To his satisfaction, the four ships began rotating slowly in the water, trying to maneuver against the new wind. They brought their sails down, but their rowers were now in play. 

Furious now, Achilles ran down the path to the sandy beach and strode to the water’s edge, eyes pale and glassy. He reached out toward the water and pushed wind into it, creating a wave that was, if not devastating, at least certainly unnatural and attention-getting, and rolled it toward the ships.

One of the ships, which had not yet fought off the rotation, was caught broadside and Achilles directed wind at it, wanting to see it tip over. To his gratification, it did tip over! It was too far away to hear the screams of the men on board, but Achilles knew the panic he was creating. He sent another wave at them, wanting it to be larger, and higher, but to his frustration it was no bigger than the first. His grandfather could have created a tidal wave, he was sure. Well, he would work with what powers he had.

Achilles paced along the shore, back and forth, glaring his wrath at the invaders and funneling more wind. Occasionally he’d stop and send another roll of unnatural and disconcerting water at them. 

Now the Saracens were tasked with saving what men they could from the tipped ship. The rowers of the three ships had stopped trying to make for shore. Achilles calmed somewhat, stopped pacing, and just concentrated on wind and choppy waves. 

Gradually, it became evident that the pirates were retreating. The sails came back up and billowed out, and Achilles made certain that he continued to encourage them to try another spot on the coast. He stood, concentrating on wind until he could see no more sails.

Finally, he turned and looked back up at the site where the men had lined up to watch. Triumphantly, he lifted both fists, and they responded with like cheers. Henri stood amongst them, his hands clasped together, raised to his lips, gazing down at his angel. Achilles gazed back up at him, glorying in his role as savior and benefactor. 

Suddenly, a few of the Canuan men were pointing to the beach behind Achilles, and he turned to see a single Saracen crawling out of the water. His drenched clothes were dark, and his hair was short, curly, and greying. He staggered to his feet and stood, exhausted and swaying, and simply looked around him at the beach, the men up on the site, and Achilles.

Achilles, eyes cold, pulled his dagger and went toward the invader, intending to dispatch him instantly, but the man raised his hands and fell back down to his knees. 

“No, please,” his accent was thick. He was heavy-set but fairly close shaven. “Please, just… Adele. Adele—“ he pointed in some indeterminate direction northwest and panted repeatedly, “Please. No kill. Just see Adele. Please no kill. Please, just… Adele.”

Achilles hesitated. His policy toward Saracens was to kill every single one he saw. But usually they were armed, and shouting, not unarmed, kneeling, and begging. He considered for a moment.

Seconds later, Alphonse was plowing through the sand. “Cenk, you bastard! Fuck you! Fuck you, Cenk!” And he came to a halt next to Achilles. “What the fuck you want, Cenk!?”

Panting, the Saracen hauled himself to his feet again. “Alphonse? That is you Alphonse? You get fat, Alphonse.”

“Go to Hell, Cenk!” Alphonse roared, pointing his finger, red-faced.

“Your mother, she is still here? Adele? She is still alive? Come, Alphonse. Tell me, Alphonse.”

Tucking his dagger back into his belt, Achilles crossed his arms over his chest and watched the family drama unfold with a quirk to his eyebrows.

“She doesn’t want to see you, Cenk! You cheated on her, Cenk!”

Achilles looked over and up at Henri and the men, who were watching the bizarre tableau with the same tilted heads.

“No, Alphonse, never! Never did I cheat on Adele. Her friend crazy jealous bitch, I never! Never!”

Achilles turned away in disbelief, but then his brow darkened and he turned back, pushing Alphonse back a few steps from his father.

“Four ships didn’t come to give you an escort back to your Christian lover,” Achilles said, drawing his dagger again.

Cenk’s tired eyes widened and he was still panting. “No,” he admitted, looking out to sea for a moment. “No, they come to sack Canua.”

“Why? Why now?” Achilles demanded.

Cenk shrugged. “Is June.”

They both stared at him. He wrung his shirt out a bit and squinted back up at Alphonse. “But I thought, I hit the beach first. I find Adele. I protect Adele. Come, Alphonse. Where is Adele? She still live by the smithy?”

Alphonse was still seething. “You left us! You went back to Thrace.”

“Your mother burn my clothes! Burn my prayer rug!” Cenk protested.

“You never prayed on it!” Alphonse snarled.

“Still,” Cenk said, and spread his hands expressively. “But I love Adele. Never forget Adele. She still single, Alphonse?”

Achilles rolled his eyes and turned away, gesturing for the men to get back to work. There were blocks to be laid, there was mortar to be poured, and one wet, middle-aged Saracen wasn’t going to stop them.

He climbed back up to the site, leaving Alphonse and Cenk arguing on the beach. At the top, he looked back again, and thought that this heavy, greying Saracen, coming with the enemy hoping to save his lover wasn’t so different from him, coming with the armies of Agamemnon, and ending up saving Hector. With a chuckle, the warrior realized his love story wasn’t the only one in the world. He turned back to the men.

“Let’s dig,” he called, and they gradually pulled themselves away from their view of the two men still squabbling on the beach, and turned back to their work.

“Bizarre,” Henri said as Achilles came back to him.

 _Not as bizarre as you think,_ his angel mused. The work continued on the site, and eventually, they noticed, a sullen Alphonse led his sodden father toward town.

“But you know,” Achilles heard Tomas say to his friend. “That means they are in the area. They will be back.” 

The men nodded. They must put the word out in Canua: anyone who could contribute to the fortress had best come forth and do so.

Achilles and Henri stayed at the site until the sun was setting, glancing often at the sea. Trouble was certainly coming.


End file.
